by Amiee Smith
“Yeah. In the drawer next to the refrigerator.”
“Oh, my. That’s some serious ink.”
Brit abandons the bong on the table, leaning in to examine the large dragon covering my left pec and shoulder. For a second, she gently grazes the tips of her nails over the design. My dick enlivens and I fight the urge to groan.
“I got the tattoo when I was trying to be an MMA fighter. I hoped it would help me win, but it didn’t do shit.”
She points to the Arabic script on her inner forearm. “Yeah, I got this tattoo hoping it would make me less of a weirdo and more of a badass. But I’m still stumbling through life.”
“When you’re in front of a classroom or performing you’re a genius,” I say genuinely.
She was the best teacher I’ve ever had. Her passion. Her poise. Her respect for the learning process. On days when she led lectures, the room would be packed. She’d prance through the lecture hall in a pair of ridiculously high heels, infusing her wisdom and love with each word spoken.
“What does this say?” I ask, running the pad of my thumb over her soft skin.
“Fiercely independent. I thought I was being clever, but turns out it’s the slogan for KPFK, the radio station.”
“The crazy left-wing station?” I ask, releasing her arm.
“Yeah. You know I’m a crazy left-winger. So crazy, I’m spending my Friday with a slick capitalist in-training.”
“Well, at least we have jazz to bridge the gap between us, Brittney.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
“Why am I not your type?”
I think Alex just mumbled something.
I’m high. Really high. We lie on a tan velour blanket on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Our shoulders so close, but untouching. Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain spins on the turntable.
My tummy is so full. Ten tacos and Cheez-It crackers with caviar on top. Every bite twirled and circled in my mouth. I love eating. I wish there was more room in my stomach so I could have a bag of fruit snacks.
This is a haunting, effervescent recording. I wonder what Miles and Gil were thinking when they arranged it? Um, that note! And that note! So brilliant.
In my next life, I want to come back as that note. Or a seahorse. Or a woman who could marry this man. A pretty girl.
I’m not a pretty girl. Too tall. Too much thigh. A mind like a robot, but a heart that loves... just loves.
I’m high. Really high.
“Did you say something?” I ask.
“Yeah, but never mind. What were they thinking when they decided to record Concierto de Aranjuez? I wonder what Miles heard in the arrangement?” Alex asks.
“‘Concierto de Aranjuez’ was originally a guitar concerto by the Spanish composer Joaquín Rodrigo. A friend of Miles’ gave him one of the only recordings. There was no score available. If I ever learn how to play the guitar, I’d like to do my own version of it.”
“What instruments do you play? Did you start as a kid?”
“Piano mostly. I grew up taking lessons. It was the only thing my mom insisted I do even though we couldn’t afford it. Organ, flute, clarinet... all came after the piano. But I’ve always longed to play the guitar.”
“So, if you were my girlfriend, the best gift I could buy you would be a guitar?”
Instruments make sense. Music creates clarity. The notes. Each note. Fills my chest, until I’m so very full. With love. Or sadness. Light.
After my next life as a seahorse, I want to come back as a ghost and live in the space between the notes. A ghost with a closet full of designer coats and shoes.
I’d float through my mansion in a hand-sewn slip with a kimono draping my body. Radiant. Fabulously fierce. I wouldn’t need to be a pretty girl. A dragon would keep me safe and secure.
“Did you say something, Alex?”
“Never mind.”
He sighs and pops to his feet, gathering our taco wrappers and beer bottles. I’m probably not very good company right now.
In my group of friends, I pride myself on being whatever anyone needs in the moment. I laugh at the jokes. Offer words of compassion. Interject “she’s a bitch,” or “he’s an asshole” when they are pissed off. I’m always down for a good time. I’m the friend who knows everyone’s secrets. In return, they feed me. Mother me. Love me in the way my parents didn’t know how.
Tonight, I’m not trying to be what Alex needs. Because he asks nothing of me. Being with him is effortless.
I shift, sitting up. “Are you tired? If you want to go to bed, I can bounce. I’ll find a bus to Venice or I’ll go to the rehearsal rooms on campus and play piano until morning.”
Playing piano tonight without the pressure of school would be amazing. Just me and the music. I’d start with “Summertime.” And wrap up with Bach or Beethoven. Find my way to morning playing my original compositions.
“No, I’m not tired. But I do want to go to bed. With you.”
“Sorry, Alex. Did you say something?”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“I run hot, Brit. I’ll sleep on the outside.”
My bed is against the wall. My mom says it’s bad Feng Shui but putting the bed anywhere else would impede on the space I need for my records.
I knew Brit would be impressed by my vinyl collection. A deep craving looms on the tip of my tongue to impress this woman.
I watch her kick off her blue heels, slide out of her tight black skinny jeans, and twist out of a blue bra. She drops everything on the old hardwood floor. Puddles of Brit left behind.
She leaves on her white tiny tee with Prince’s face on the front and climbs into my bed. Long legs. Full thighs. White cotton bikini panties. And I’m certain Brit is rocking a full bush.
Retrieving the items, I fold her clothes and place them on top of my dresser. I put her shoes in the closet, noticing the Jimmy Choo label.
“How can you afford designer shoes on your budget?”
“I ate ramen for a month to afford my Choos. I only have ten pairs of designer shoes. Though I dream of owning hundreds of shoes and coats.”
The window air conditioner unit whirrs on low. Clicking off the light mounted above my bed, I remove my shirt and shorts and lie next to her. She smells natural. Floral. Eyes closed, her cheek cradles my pillow.
I study her.
From this angle, when she’s not standing taller than me in those insanely high heels, she appears almost delicate. I’d never say it to her face. She’d give me her feminist smackdown stare and a lecture on the patriarchy.
“Why shoes and coats?” I ask.
“Growing up, my mom could only afford to buy one coat and one pair of shoes every school year. I took great pride in selecting each piece, but I always imagined what it would be like if I didn’t have a budget and I could buy whatever I wanted. I grew up around designer clothes. My mom was a runway and print model.”
“My mom modeled too. In Italy. She moved to the US to be a fashion designer. She did print work before launching her first fashion line.”
“My mom wanted to be an actor. It’s why she moved to L.A. But she could never get a break. Too tall. Very dark-skinned. And a heavy French accent no number of acting workshops could get rid of. My whole childhood I watched her struggle. Background work. A few commercials. Never a real role, until she got cast in a soap opera in Paris when I was 16.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
“No. I became an emancipated minor.”
“That’s crazy, Brit. Where did you live?”
“I was supposed to live with Jen’s family, but her mom got sick. Lynn’s parents took me in for the last year of high school.”
“The Scotts are members of The Pasadena Club like my parents. How was living with them?”
“Great. Evelyn and Martin are good people. They treated me like a second daughter. It was the first time in my life I didn’t have to think about my survival. I’m not so sure
Lynn liked having a sister, but we made it work.”
“What about your dad? Why didn’t you go live with him?”
“My mom and dad were never together. They had an arrangement of sorts. I never met my dad. He was Saudi. The only time my mom asked him for anything was when my kindergarten teacher deemed me too smart for L.A. Unified and suggested I attend private school or move to a better school district. My mom couldn’t afford to do either, so she went to my dad, and he agreed to pay rent on the house in Pasadena. It’s how I was able to live in that neighborhood. What was growing up like for you?”
“Honestly, it sucked. I stuttered for the first six years of my life and I could barely read. But I was strong, so I’d fight anyone who made fun of me. I spent a lot of time in detention or suspended. My mom always went to bat for me. She’d argue with my teachers and principals, but her English wasn’t good when I was younger, so it didn’t help much. My dad grew up poor. Once he made it, he did not want anyone at the Pasadena Club to know his son was a big dummy. He focused all his attention on my brother, the star athlete he could brag to all his country club friends about. Well, Nick used to be a star athlete. His water polo career is over now.”
Brit smacks her hand in the center of my chest. It doesn’t hurt. This woman couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag. Her sultry voice, stern.
“Alex, you are not a dummy. You were one of the most insightful students I had all semester. I never want to hear you say that again.”
“Got it,” I say, wrapping my hand around hers and bringing it to my lips.
I kiss her palm once, and she doesn’t move. I do it again. My tongue caresses her skin. She sighs.
Maybe in the dark, in my bed, I could be her type?
“Brittney, let me kiss you? Between your thighs?” I ask, feathering another kiss over her palm.
I’ve figured this woman out. Asking to kiss her lips would be too much intimacy. Making her come. In my mouth. She might go for it.
She moves her hand away, turning toward the wall.
“No, Dragon. You’re way too hot. And I would be the dummy that gets burned.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
“Is Alex here?”
It’s five minutes to close. Standing behind the counter at Sophia, I mentally total my commissions for the week. The image of the $25,000 gown I sold comes to mind.
My commission on the dress will pay half of my rent this month.
Or I could buy a pair of Manolos at the consignment shop down the street. Mint condition. Silver satin. 105mm heel. Size: 9 ½.
Or I could buy concert tickets with my educator discount.
Or I could treat Alex to a nice meal with an expensive bottle of wine.
Every time we go out, he picks up the check. And while I gladly let him, it’d be cool to do something nice for him. As a way of saying thank you for being such a good friend.
The only person who has been as good to me as Alex is Jen. She’s the friend everyone dreams of. Rich, famous, down-to-earth, wicked smart, and hella fun.
I guess Alex is the man every woman dreams of. Not me. He’s just my good friend.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” I ask the petite Asian woman standing on the other side of the counter.
She’s so pretty. And tiny.
“I’m looking for Alex Willingham. He’s not expecting me, but I thought we could walk over to the White Horse Lounge together.”
White Horse Lounge is one of those classic Pasadena-lux restaurants, an excellent first date location.
“Ah, yes. He’s in the back. Just one moment.”
I stride down the hallway lined with mirrors leading to the administrative offices. I look fierce in my black patent leather, Louboutin 120mm pumps and black Forever 21 knee-length shift dress.
Alex is going out? On a Wednesday? Why didn’t he say anything? It’s taco night. After work, he goes to his boxing gym and I go practice piano on campus while he works out. Then we get tacos and beers. And inevitably before we fall asleep, he’ll ask if he can go down on me.
Dammit, that’s the routine!
I even remembered to bring a change of underwear. The all-black dress code for sales associates makes it easy for me to wear the same outfit two days in a row. But Alex thinks it is way too Berkeley-hippie for me to wear the same underwear.
(I always wash them out in the sink and hang them in his shower to dry. In my mind it’s not so bad, but I respect his opinion.)
Why would he change up the routine? Without telling me?
“Hey, your date is here,” I say, stepping into his office.
He’s dressed in navy slacks, and a crisp white shirt. His silver glasses are missing, revealing his stunning blue-green eyes. Eyes the color of the ocean in Aruba.
He always wears his glasses. I bet he’s just trying to be cool for his date. He doesn’t have to be cool with me.
He’s focused on the financial reports spread across his desk. Reviewing spreadsheets, he seems more grown up than when he was my student just a few months ago. Manly. All-important. Commanding. Oh, the intriguingly sexy side of the patriarchy.
“Yo! Your date is here,” I sass, tapping my long nail on the white modern desk.
“What?”
He stares at me.
“She arrived early so she decided to come here instead of the restaurant. She’s in the showroom. What are you so focused on?”
“Your sales numbers for July. You are not only outselling every other associate this month, you tripled your commission from last month. Good work, Brit. Really good.”
“Thank you, Alex.”
His praise pushes my annoyance out of the way. I smile and twist my hands in front of me. Gosh, it’s like he just stroked the top of my head and said: “good girl.”
Arousal causes my skin to flush. My cheeks warm. My sex ignites.
What is wrong with me? Screw taco night. I need to be as far away from daddy... I mean, Dragon, as possible.
“I’m going to go. Will you lock up before you leave for your... thing?” I say, backing away from his desk.
He stands. Alex seems bigger than normal, filling up the space with all his heat.
“Yeah, sure. What are you up to tonight? It’s taco night, I assumed you were staying over. I saw panties in your bag when we went to lunch. I’m proud of you.”
Again, his praise is like slow masculine strokes from the bottom of my feet to the nape of my neck.
“Alex, you have dinner plans with Roxanne tonight.”
“It’s an alumni networking event for the business school. I’ve been telling you about it for the last week. It’ll last an hour. Two tops. Roxanne was my TA. She’s going to introduce me to her contacts in New York. I thought you’d go to the practice rooms and we’d meet at my apartment later. Brit, do you ever listen to me?”
Oh, daddy, I will listen.
No. No. I’m not allowed to feel this way about Alex! He’s a... suit.
“I forgot I have this jam session,” I lie, retrieving my purse from the cabinet lining the wall.
“Where is your jam session? I can meet you there after my event,” he says, sliding on his matching blazer.
“Ugh, I’m incapable of lying to you, Alex. I don’t have a jam session! My body is betraying me right now and I’m having... a reaction to you I’m not supposed to have because you’re my boss. And you used to be my student. And you’re a poster child for the patriarchy. And a weirdo girl like me can’t be with a picture-perfect guy like you. So, now I’m going to make myself feel better and buy a pair a Manolos. Which will be a fleeting pleasure because I’ll just be bummed out later for spending my rent money. Then I’ll drive to Venice, listening to anti-capitalism radio before picking up a Big Mac, super-sized fries and a six piece Chicken McNuggets. And eventually I’ll climb into bed with a super full tummy and overthink myself to sleep.”
“Skip the Manolos. Go to campus and practice piano. Here are my keys. I’ll se
e you at my place in a few hours. I’ll bring tacos. There are beers in the refrigerator. I’ll let you pick the records for tonight,” he commands quietly, extending his key chain.
“I want ten carnitas tacos and...”
“And the fire salsa. I know your order.”
“What about the reaction, Dragon?” I ask, retrieving the keys from his hand.
“Brittney, it’s the same reaction I’ve been having to you for the last seven months.”
My nails graze his knuckles. His thumb strokes my palm.
“You’re moving away.”
“Yep. To be a capitalist pig,” he says, before releasing me.
CHAPTER 4
ALEX WILLINGHAM
I haven’t seen my wife in a week.
Over the last eight years, we’ve gone stretches of time without seeing each other. But I always knew she was just a short drive away. I always knew I could show up at her house and she’d welcome me in.
I always knew it was never really the end.
A gust of wind blows a plume of cigarette smoke in my face. I'm standing in front of Lynn’s duplex in the Hayes Valley neighborhood of San Francisco. The City is cold and gray compared to always sunny L.A.
Lately, I haven’t felt sunny.
I started smoking again. 36 hours ago. This is my fourth cigarette since I bought the pack. I’m stressed and anxious. Nothing new. My business is high stress, it’s why Willingham Wealth Management has a full-time nurse practitioner and a performance coach on staff.
I’m a high stress guy. Always have been. According to our coach, a licensed psychologist, I’m too hard on myself. However, this anxiety is abnormal. A premonition. And my wife is the only person who would understand, the only person who can keep me calm.
I’m in the City because Michael planned a surprise wedding for Lilly. I admire his boldness. He just believes his smart girl will say “yes.” I got my smart girl to marry me, but I doubt she’ll ever really say “yes.”