by Tej Turner
“You are talented,” he muttered.
I shrugged. It was far from one of my best. I had created it to vent my frustration when I was waiting for him to contact me. But he wasn’t playing mind games anymore, so now I just wanted to finish it and send it away to the gallery.
He turned around and patted me on the shoulder on his way towards the door.
“When are we meeting again?” I asked.
“Who said we were meeting again?”
His parting words confused me but there was no point in dwelling on them so I went to my studio to finish off that painting I had been working on.
But when I reached the easel, what I saw made me gasp.
The painting had changed.
I shook my head. This was certainly a weird occurrence, though not a new one. This has happened before. Sometimes my paintings seem to have a mind of their own. The characters move, the colours change, new objects appear, others are taken away.
The only person I have ever trusted enough to tell about this phenomenon was Namda, but even my best friend was sceptical. Well this time her theory, that some people sleepwalk, and I sleep-paint, had lost the little credibility it ever had as an explanation. I could clearly remember the painting as I had finished it before I went to Janus that night, and since then I had only slept at Neal’s.
The wall between the two people was now leaning towards the woman and looked like it was about to collapse on her. There was no way I had painted it this way. Even her facial expression had changed; she was now staring up at the bricks about to fall on her head.
I angrily grabbed the frame from the easel and dropped it onto a pile of my unfinished and discarded pieces.
After five days of silence I finally accepted that Neal must have got bored of me and moved on. A few hours later he appeared on my doorstep with a bottle of wine in one hand and a Chinese takeaway in the other. He ended up staying for two days.
The cycle began. We would meet almost every weekend. We shopped, we dined, we took his dogs for walks through the countryside, we saw the sights of the city, some nights we would stay up chatting until the sun came up, sometimes we would spend the whole day in bed.
Each time it was over we would part but any mention of future plans were met with ambiguous dismissals. Any comments that acknowledged there was something going on between us would result in him becoming cold and distant.
I kept telling myself that it was because of his wife, but it felt like I was caught in a whirlwind and I was beginning to feel dizzy.
One day, he was dropping me off at my house and I asked him what he was doing next weekend.
“Who said we were meeting again?” he asked.
That devious smile on his face. All this time I had attributed his contrary behaviour to guilty feelings over his deceased wife but, when I saw that look in his eyes that day, I realised that it wasn’t all because of her.
He was enjoying this.
“Why can’t you just be straight with me?” I asked.
“I don’t do straight these days,” he said jokingly. “You should know that.”
“I don’t do mind games.”
His expression changed and his eyes narrowed at me grimly.
“Last thing I need is a stalker!” he hissed. “I will call you if I fancy it, ok?”
“Don’t bother,” I retorted. “I’ve had enough!”
I slammed the door and stormed across the pavement. I could feel his eyes burning into me as I fumbled for my keys but I didn’t turn around.
This is why I don’t usually let myself get too attached to people.
It doesn’t matter how close people make you feel to them, you can never fully trust anyone. In a society where we no longer have to fight for survival and everything we need is readily available, we have been taught to consume, seek cheap pleasure, and indulge everything in excess. It is all about the packaging. People care little for the product they originally desired.
Media broadcasts images of perfect bodies and weekly fashions tell us how to be; not many people fit the schema and we are caused to feel increasingly isolated from each other. Deflated self-esteem, in a world where the general public have little control over the way they live, has turned us into egotists, searching for ways to make ourselves feel important and special. Sex has turned into something that people give to each other freely, on a whim, and, to many, romance is just a grand scheme to satisfy their shattered egos at the expense of others’. Consume. Consume. Consume. Discard. When people are discarded like a flimsy wrapper their confidence becomes wilted and they lose faith in their self and everyone else.
This is why people play mind games and use each other. Somewhere through this journey we have lost a part of ourselves and we strive to get it back. People would rather sit and stare at their phone, thinking about calling someone, rather than touch the buttons and give away another piece of their self. They have learnt that some will lead them on just to feel special; to know that someone wants them just so they can discard them. They have learnt this because others did it to them first.
They rip away the wrapper, gobble away a few chunks, and discard the rest.
Back to the sweet shop. It is time to fill that hole again.
I performed my usual routine for when I want to forget about someone – removing all traces of their existence. His toothbrush, a t-shirt he had left behind, empty bottles of wine we drank together, notes he had left on the fridge, and I even deleted his number from my phone.
Whenever something bad happens in my life I try to make something good out of it, usually venting it through my art. When I walked into my studio I remembered there was just one piece of him left in my flat.
I went through the stack of canvases on the floor, and found the picture of the two lovers I had painted when I first met him.
It had changed again. The woman was ducking for cover. She was about to be crushed by the weight of the bricks falling on her.
I stared at it, seething with anger, trying to remember it the way I had last seen it.
I then noticed the trowel in her hand was empty, now; there was no cement holding the wall together, and that was why it was falling. This was also impossible, as I had clear memories of brushing in those tawny coloured textures in between the red bricks.
I almost burned the painting with the rest of his stuff but I needed the money and it would have been a waste. I finished it off by just adding some finishing touches rather than trying to mend the mysterious changes. If the painting wanted to alter itself so much then I would let it be that way. I just wanted to get it out of my sight.
When I was done I named it ‘The Christmas Puppy’. I would take it to the gallery down the road in the morning. They sell my paintings in exchange for a commission. If I had my own shop I could probably make more money but I can never be bothered to deal with the business side of things. This way, I don’t make as much money but I get to just concentrate on what I love doing – painting – and the rest of my time I am free to enjoy my life instead of having to worry about the commercial side.
This painting was finished. It was time to begin a new one.
I placed a blank canvas on the easel and stared at it. I didn’t have any ideas yet but sometimes, if I just stared at a canvas for long enough, my eyes would project a picture onto it and I could start tracing the lines with a paintbrush. But today nothing was coming.
After a few minutes I glanced back at ‘The Christmas Puppy’. It was finished and I had placed it aside, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow incomplete. I knew it would be almost impossible to make any changes to it now as I had already smothered it with varnish, but I felt like it was calling to me. It needed something else to complete its story.
But I couldn’t think of what it was.
Fuck it.
I reached for my coat and went to the door.
Sometimes, when I lack inspiration, I go to Janus and drink.
I stepped through the entrance an
d instinctively walked towards the bar, even though the room was cloudy with smoke and my eyes were still adjusting to the atmosphere. A few kids stared at me but I avoided making eye contact. This place had recently become plagued by clichés in tight black clothes and spiked bracelets – the type of teenagers who like to feel that they are breaking free from the bonds of society and being ‘different’ but somehow, in the process, all managing to look the same. I try to avoid them.
I bought myself a drink and sat down at a dusty table in the corner. I gulped down rum and coke while my mind stewed over recent events and tried to make sense of the situation. Figure out why I had let this guy get under my skin.
I considered ringing Namda but I knew that if I saw her she would just start asking questions. I didn’t want to swallow and regurgitate my issues. I wanted to have a good time and forget about them.
I got up and went back to the bar, realising that the place would start getting busy soon so I should probably get a drink that would last me.
“Can I have a jug?” I asked.
The barman reached into one of the shelves behind him and held one up. It was one of the larger ones – he must have been psychic.
“Can I have vodka?”
He poured a shot.
“More vodka...”
He tilted the bottle towards the jug until I motioned him to stop. After I gave him the signal he placed the vodka back on the shelf and began to walk towards the place where the cola and other mixers were kept.
“Wait,” I called, stopping him in mid motion. “Can I have some gin?”
For the next minute or so I guided him with the point of my finger to the different liquors and spirits along the shelf which took my fancy and, after I thought I had enough to get me reasonably wasted, the jug was topped up with some fruit juice and lemonade.
“How much?” I asked.
He had not been taking a precise count of everything that had been poured into it – instead, he held the jug up to his face and narrowed his eyebrows. That was one of the good things about Janus – the tariff was not always fixed or exact.
After a quick exchange of bartering, I got a reasonable price and handed him my money. He offered me a glass with my change, which I turned down.
I lifted the jug to my lips as I made my way up the stairs.
I wandered my way down the corridor and found myself in the room that the potheads had claimed for the night. I am not much of a smoker but I indulged on a few tokes and my large jug was like gold dust to the parched mouths of the stoners. Afterwards, I decided to get some clear air on the balcony but ended up getting into light-hearted small talk with people I vaguely knew in the corridor.
I eventually bumped into Halann, a friend of Namda’s, a girl with mousey brown hair and periwinkle gloss painted on her lips.
“Hey Trissy! How are you? It’s busy here tonight isn’t it? Is Namda out?”
She was speaking very fast. I noticed that the blacks of her eyes were bigger than usual and she was chewing gum. I am no detective, but the signs were telling me she was on amphetamines.
I shook my head, and made a mental note to tell Namda to stop calling me “Trissy” in public – it was starting to catch on.
“Nah,” I said. “She’s probably sculpting or—”
“Shame you couldn’t come out the other night,” Halann interrupted me.
“Sorry, I was kind of busy...”
She raised her eyebrow knowingly. “Ah I remember Namda saying... so... you’re preoccupied at the moment, hey?”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”
“Oh,” she replied, sparing me a quick, sympathetic smile. “That’s a shame...”
Suddenly her eyes lit up and she grabbed my arm. “I know something that will cheer you up, come with me!”
She spoke to me over her shoulder as she dragged me down the corridor. “I just tried to stick my tongue in this guy’s mouth, but he was not so into it. Anyway, it turns out that he is one of your kind. It’s a good thing I don’t get embarrassed – don’t you think!” she exclaimed between giggles.
I laughed with her but inside I was sighing. Why is it that all straight people think that two people are automatically going to be attracted to each other just because they both happen to be gay?
“Anyway,” she said as she pushed open a creaky door. “I think he was in here...”
The huge black pupils of her eyes did a scan of the room as she took some large gulps from her glass of water. Eventually she pinpointed our target and grabbed hold of my arm so that we could close in.
He was standing by the window, and at first all I could see was a large black trench coat covering the back of a tall person with broad shoulders.
Halann prodded his shoulder, and he turned around.
“Not going to try any of that again are we?” he asked Halann teasingly.
Halann giggled into her hand. “No. I am not going to. But – by the way – here is a friend of mine, Tristan. Tristan, this is Harry.”
We shook hands. He was wearing a cowboy hat that cast shadows across his handsomely chiselled face. He had high cheekbones, nice blue eyes, and a defined jaw covered with a manly spread of stubble. I would have guessed his age at somewhere in the middle of his twenties.
“Tristan here is an artist,” the ecstasy-induced chatterbox carried on talking as his fingers lingered against my hand and his eyes went down to my feet and back up again. “What do you do again?” she asked.
“I guess I could call myself an entrepreneur,” he said, his eyes were set on my face now, and not moving.
“Oh really,” Halann squealed. “That’s such a coincidence because my cousin, she... oh wait, is that Jarni over there?”
In a split second Halann’s legs had carried her to the other side of the room.
Harry and I were alone.
Harry was charming. He was successful. He had a deep, manly voice. He was worldly and well-travelled. He had been to places, seen many things, and had the means to do so again. He had a fine physique and knew how to present himself.
He was also one of the most boring people I had ever met in my life.
So far we had chatted about money, money, trade, economics, money, and more money. He explained to me many of the finer details of how he buys stuff at the right time and then makes profit by selling it at another place later, while I got more and more drunk, taking large gulps from my drink to drown out my urges to yawn.
At one point I thought the conversation was going to get interesting. He asked me about my art, but I somehow got tricked into telling him how much money my art dealer makes whenever she sells one of my works and he – as my new friend – informed me how I could get a much better deal. Within moments he had already planned out how I was going to start my own new business. I tried to tell him that the financial side of it all doesn’t bother me and that I was quite happy earning the small amount it takes to keep me alive, but somehow it did not compute.
Eventually he placed his drink on the table.
“So why is a beauty like you single, then?” he asked.
“I... err...” I found myself quite taken aback. I knew I was fairly good looking but I had never really thought of myself as beautiful. If I was, wouldn’t I know? I am an artist, after all.
His fingers went to my chin and tilted my head up and we stared at each other.. His hand was warm, and he did have nice eyes. There was definitely an attraction there.
But it just wasn’t the same. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted any new man in my life. I didn’t want anyone to get close to me again.
“I need to go...” I announced. “I have things...”
Harry just smiled. “That’s fine, but here, take this.”
He handed me his business card. How fitting.
It was time for me to get another drink so I began to make my way downstairs, and spotted a familiar face on the way.
“Tristan!” she called, ushering me over.
“Hey,” I said, as I reached her. She seemed strangely tense and apprehensive.
“I can’t stop for long,” she said, casting her eyes around us warily. “I just need to tell you something, and I know it will sound weird, but please, Tristan, you’ve got to trust me.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something bad is going to happen here one day,” she whispered into my ear. “And this place will no longer feel welcome. No matter how bad it gets you must still come. Friday night. When they have taken over be here on Friday night.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve got to go now!” she said, suddenly taking to her heels and sprinting down the corridor before I could voice any of the many questions going through my mind.
When I reached the main bar downstairs I saw another familiar face. This time, it was Neal – the last person in the world I expected to see.
Even in the dim lighting I could recognise that ruggedly handsome face and that seductive, misleading smile. But it wasn’t for me this time. It was for a pretty young woman wearing spiked bracelets he was talking to.
My stomach felt empty as I tried to figure out what this could mean. He knew this was the place where I liked to hang out, so I could only guess that turning up here was just another one of his weird games.
I did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing his presence affecting me so I decided it was time to make a swift and inconspicuous exit.
This plan was unsuccessful. Just as I finished making my way down the staircase I knocked my jug against the banister and it shattered on the floor. At the sound of glass breaking a few faces turned to stare at me but they were quickly distracted by something else. Only one pair of eyes lingered – Neal’s. He had noticed me.