by Ava Cummings
Us together, it feels simple this way, without words. It works, our bodies, made for each other. But we have to talk. It can’t go on like this anymore.
I pull myself off him and he rolls me gently onto the daybed next to him. He holds me in his arms and I rest my head on his chest. As he kisses the top of my head and rubs my back, he says, “Let me get you something—water? A beer?
“A beer and a cigarette would be perfect,” I sigh.
“I couldn’t have said it better,” he says, as he runs his fingers through his hair, slicked with sweat.
Damien pops up, still naked, and strides over to a small yet modern kitchenette—granite counters, slick shiny white European cabinets and stainless steel appliances. He reaches into the Wolfe fridge with clear glass doors and pulls out two Heinekens and grabs his pack of Marlboro reds.
He sticks two in his mouth, lights them both, and hands one to me. He pops the top off the Heinekens.
I take a drag and then a sip.
“Perfect,” he says.
“What?”
“You. This.”
I shake my head. How could he say that, with everything that’s happened? We’re so far from perfect. We’re not even functioning right now. I shouldn’t have let this just happen, but my body and emotions took over, like a freight train, I couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to. I needed him, even if it’s our last time.
“Perfect together in bed does not make perfect in a relationship,” I say. “I want more. We are more than that.”
“I messed up.”
“Why?” I plead.
“There are things about me that you don’t know and that you wouldn’t like,” he says, getting dark again.
“I could say the same for me, Damien. No one’s perfect. We all have a past.”
“It’s not my past I’m worried about.” He pauses, takes a deep drag from his cigarette, exhales with a look of pain on his face. “It’s my future.”
He takes a long sip from his beer.
“I can’t escape who I am. No matter how hard I try. I’m scared, Anna, about what’s inside of me. I’m talking about genes, my makeup, my family…my fate. And to expose myself and my soul to the only person that I’ve ever really felt anything for…”
My heart aches for the torture he has raging inside of him. The pain. I want to soothe it. Whatever it is that he feels resigned to, I know he is strong and can fight it. I don’t want him to give up on himself. He’s sitting on the side of the daybed now and I reach over and grab him around the waist, giving him a hug.
“Why did you bolt on me?” I say, as I stay wrapped around him.
“It’s…complicated.”
“The life literally drained from your face.”
“I’m not ready to talk about it. Give me some time…right now I want to describe what you do to me inside…I’m not always great with words…but I want to show you. Anna, let me sketch you.”
It’s not the explanation I had hoped for, but it feels like enough. We’re all works in progress. I feel it inside and I’m going with it. I release myself from our embrace and look at him. “You do that with all your girlfriends?”
“Actually, I’ve never done it before. None of my work has ever included much drawing, but since I took that photo of you at the Bubble Lounge, I can’t stop putting you on paper. It’s like you’re my light, my inspiration.”
“Like this?” I ask, as I lay there, buck naked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Okay, on one condition—you have to do it right now the way you are.”
“You mean naked?”
“Yup.”
“No problem,” he says, and jumps up. He drags an easel over close to the daybed, pins up a sheet of paper, and starts sketching.
I adjust my position and lie like one of the Greek goddesses we saw at the Met, on my side with my head propped up on my arm. I feel him embodying me, taking in every inch. His gaze on me is intense, I feel seen by him. It’s like he’s drinking me in, exploring me.
“How’s this?” I ask, as I fix my hair, so it falls down around my shoulders in soft waves.
His eyes dart back and forth between the easel and me. His hand flies around the paper, making big strokes. He moves like it’s coming from deep within him. He furrows his brow—concentrating intensely. I close my eyes and think I feel what it’s like to be an artist’s muse.
“It’s great, perfect.”
His muscles alternately flex and contract in his arms and back as he continues to draw. His body glistens from sex and his tight muscles move under his skin like a cheetah. Damien looks at me so intensely, studying my every curve and dip, the shadows and light. We’re not touching, but it’s intimate. I want to jump back into his arms but hold myself back, revel in the role of being the subject, and maybe even the inspiration.
“Your butt is perfect, you know,” he says, as he keeps sketching. “It’s round and perfectly sized. Fits right into my hands.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, “but I hate my butt. I’ve always wished it was…smaller. It’s been a battle….”
“It’s perfect. Seriously. Perfect. The way it goes in here and curves around the sides,” he says as he makes a curving motion with his hands, pausing his work for a moment. “I’m the artist here—trust me. We’re visual. We know these things.”
Seeing my body through his gaze shuts off the pounding loop of criticism that I play in my head. I feel surprisingly unselfconscious. Meeting his ever-present gaze, I feel unbound.
He turns slightly and I can tell he’s turned on, too. I can’t take my eyes off his erection.
“I needed to do this,” he says, as he continues sketching me. “Even in charcoal, you’re perfect.”
“Put that charcoal down and get your butt over here,” I say, as I roll up on my knees and curl my finger toward him.
24
Special Delivery
Cari and I laze on our lumpy, bumpy couch, nibbling fresh bagels from the place around the corner, the heavenly smell permeating the apartment. It’s become our Saturday morning ritual. Cari calls it, “the usual.” Contentedly bed-headed, in crumply pajamas, and snuggled under a blanket, I begin to fill her in on the craziness of the past twenty-four hours. When the building phone on the wall in the kitchen shouts a loud ring, it cuts me short.
“Anna, we have a…uh…a large delivery down here for you. A bunch of guys here, too. Can I send ‘em up?”
I pause, more than a little stunned. The voice on the other line fills the silence.
“It’s from a…” I hear him shuffle a pile of papers. “Damien Wolfe.”
A smile slowly begins to spread across my face. Cari motions like crazy, wanting to know what’s going on.
“I’ll send the guys up now.”
“Thanks,” I manage to eek out, before stuffing my pinkie finger in my mouth and anxiously shaving off the nail.
“Don’t thank me yet. Just make room for this thing. It’s huge.”
I turn to Cari and explain, peeling the nail down to the quick.
Moments later the doorbell rings, and a trio of delivery guys—young, arty hipster types in flannel shirts and ripped jeans—motion for us to step aside as they maneuver an enormous package covered in bubble wrap into the apartment.
“Hey,” one of them says, as he nods toward us. He explains that it’s a painting and begins to survey the area for where it could go.
“Of what?” I ask, before they edge in any further.
“That, you’ll find out when we unwrap it. We’ll need the better part of a wall.”
His eyes scan the living room. I can see him running the measurements and calculations through his mind as he visually estimates the available space.
“Could do it here,” he says. “But you’d have to move the couch.”
“My room, maybe? I have one big wall where it might fit,” I say, feeling like I may want to keep the creation for myself.
We all squeeze into the hall and check it ou
t.
“That’ll work,” says guy number one. “I’m Soren, by the way. Damien’s an old friend.”
After we introduce ourselves, I glance toward the painting, overwhelmed by its sheer size. As if reading my mind, Soren starts in.
“Don’t worry. We take care of it.”
“Hanging it?” I exhale, relieved.
“We’re art handlers, not your standard delivery dudes. We move and install art for celebrities, museums, collectors.”
Soren and his two buddies pull on white cotton gloves and begin to remove the packaging carefully, almost surgically, slowly revealing the painting. As the crew works, he says that last week they moved Roy Kravitz’s guitars and art collection to his new place in London. I make a mental note to research the company as a future source for a story.
“It has its moments…So, the bedroom. I think that would be perfect.”
Cari has scooted up next to me to watch the unveiling.
“It’s you!” she announces, as she leans in and peeks.
I get quiet, and my eyes go wide.
“It looks like the piece in the Whitney,” Cari continues.
As Soren and the team take the final wrappings away, they turn the piece to face Cari and me.
“It’s one of his studies for the sculpture,” says Soren. “He painted a few in prep, but this was the biggest—to scale—and the most complete.”
“Wow,” is all I can manage to squeak out in barely more than a whisper.
The painting is a huge image of my face broken down into little squares, as though a grid were sketched over it. When I look at it up close, I see a true grid and strokes in each square, but as I pull back, the image of a face—my face—begins to take shape, in shades from white to gray. The way it might look built in sugar cubes. It’s amazing and seems almost impossible in its painstaking detail.
I stand there, stunned. Damien and I are a big question mark. Yesterday at his studio was amazing, but I still don’t have answers. He admitted he has demons, but he also suggested they may be too much for him to overcome, for us to overcome.
Hell, I don’t even know how to allow myself to be truly loved. He may not be able to crack my shell. It’s so thick at this point that it may be impenetrable.
“It’s unbelievable,” I say, as I finally manage to speak. “But…I can’t accept it. I just can’t.” I throw up my hands. “It belongs in a museum. Not crammed on a wall in my tiny New York bedroom.”
“No way,” says Soren. “Damien said you might say that. It’s not leaving with me. Anyway, art doesn’t need to be displayed with special lighting in climate-controlled rooms. Art is art. You can do whatever you want with it. And Damien wants you to have it.”
“Anna, it’s a gift,” Cari says, echoing Soren. “And it’s from someone you happen to be crazy about. And it’s freaking awesome. And you look amazingly beautiful. What is the issue here, exactly?”
I exhale and my shoulders drop, as a faint smile finally emerges. Let the goodness happen, I tell myself. Allow myself to be happy, to grant someone else the power to make me happy. I don’t have to be in charge of my destiny every second. Damien is sending a powerful message. I need to try, just try, to let the walls down, and see what happens.
Suddenly, words I’ve never uttered in my life pop into my head. Have faith. Something I’ve never had before, never felt before. Have faith, I tell myself again. I think this time, I might be able to do it.
“Okay, okay. You all win. I’ll keep it,” I say finally, accepting the painting. “It is pretty freaking cool. On that wall, above my bed. I think it will look great.”
Soren nods his head in acknowledgment, and gets to work, directing the other guys, and chatting as he goes along. “He’s a total art star. His work is going to be on the walls of every major museum in the not-too-distant future, taught in art-history classes. He’s on his way. Collectors can’t get enough, and the curators of all the important museums are fighting over him.”
“Really?” I say. “I didn’t realize…I mean, I knew he was amazing, but…”
“Yeah, he’s getting, like, hundreds of thousands of dollars for each piece now. How do you think he can afford a studio in SoHo? All the rest of us are renting old warehouse spaces out in Greenpoint.”
Damien never let on how big he was. His studio is beautiful but not showy. He always pays and takes care of everything when we’re together, but he’s not like Alec, out to impress by splashing wads of cash around. Damien’s clothes are gorgeous—soft leather jackets, rugged Italian boots, those jeans that look like they were made for him—but again, never ostentatious.
“Geez,” I say, as I chew more fingernails down to the quick. Most of the big artists go out with models and movie stars. Why me? The scared Anna rushes back in, and my moment of faith quickly shrinks away. All my insecurities flood back in its place.
Soren and the guys with him get to work hanging the painting. Cari and I stand in the doorway and watch in awe. They measure the entire wall, then the length of the painting, to ensure that it’s perfectly centered. They drill holes in the wall and insert plastic anchors strong enough to support the weight of the painting. Then they use a laser beam to help hang the work perfectly straight—far more professional than my usual thumbtack or random-old-nail approach.
Once the painting is hung beautifully behind my bed, they clean up any dirt and replace all the furniture exactly where it was, even smoothing the comforter on my bed.
“How’s it look?” says Soren, stepping back and removing the white gloves.
“Perfect,” I say, gazing at the image, taking in how Damien sees me. Eyeing the fervent strokes of paint on the canvas, I feel the passion when he caresses my skin. I tingle in response to the thought, feeling him touching me. “Thank you.”
As they head out to leave, Soren turns around abruptly. “Oh, almost forget. He wanted you to have this, too.”
He pulls a crumpled envelope out of his jacket pocket. “Sorry, comes with the territory,” he says, smiling apologetically as he hands it to me.
I take the small, white envelope and hold it until they close the door behind them.
Cari practically accosts me as soon as the door shuts. “Well, open it.”
“Give me a second.”
Scared Anna is in full bloom. I’m frightened to read what he’s written. Is this a goodbye—a lovely way to say farewell, that he can’t do it, that there’s too much for him to overcome? It would be tragically romantic. And it somehow seems fitting for my passionate artist. My hands tremble as I hold the envelope.
I walk down the hall to my room to gaze at the painting again, to sip in a measure of confidence, then plop on my bed and bravely open the envelope.
Dear Anna,
By now, you shouldhave received the painting. It’sthe main study for Sweet Muse. You were the inspiration for it, so I felt you should have it. I did my best to capture your beauty and thesincerity, honesty,and hope you give to the world, even in situations and places where there is nothing. Inside and out, you are the most beautiful person I have ever met.
I know my past is hurting us, but I’m determined to battle my demons. I hope you continue to let me fight for you, for us. Come with me Tuesday night to my friend’s opening at the Carl Fine G allery. I want to introduce you to some people in my life.
D.
A rush of comfort, of brilliant hope, washes over me. He’s trying. He’s willing to try. He’s going to fight—for me, for him, for us.
25
In His World
It’s a slow day in the newsroom. We just closed an issue. A sense of relief permeates the office. People actually stand around and chat in small groups. Sounds of laughter echo in the halls. There’s a lightness that’s not there once the pressure builds later on in the week. People mill about, clear off their desks, file papers, and get ready for the next issue—prepping ideas, calling reporters and writers, and checking in on developing stories.
I stare b
lankly at my computer screen, unable to concentrate, let alone gossip with the staffers. Last night, I lay on my bed and stared up at the painting for hours. Letting my mind go and my heart follow along, I fantasized about Damien and I sharing a life together—two soul mates giving each other the power to love, to pursue our dreams, to conquer the world.
I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear him say that he’s determined to fight for us. I felt something inside me warming, thawing. I think it was that cold, thick wall around my heart, beginning to melt.
While I float down the hall in my own little bubble, making my way to the ladies’ room, I catch my shoulder on Sandy Stein, the most powerful publicist in the business, who happens to be Mandy Malone’s representative. Lost in my thoughts, I lose my balance.
“Anna, watch it! New Versace,” she says, wiping off the touch, fixing an imperceptible wrinkle on her shirt.
I abruptly exit my Damien cloud and realize I accidentally touched the ice queen. “Sandy, so sorry, I was…”
“Totally spaced out?”
Normally, Sandy is impenetrable, a fortress. She only calls you when she’s pissed off about something you’ve written. But with the Mandy Malone piece, she’s been calling regularly to check in.
I run my hands down my shirt, pulling myself together.
“Mandy was awesome. She is so smart and knows so much about the art world. You don’t see that often in Hollywood. It’s turning into a really thoughtful piece, showing a side of her that no one has had a chance to see. It should run in the next issue. But I’ll keep you posted…meeting Bernie for lunch?”
“Yeah, I know what Mandy said,” says Sandy, in her usual curt, know-it-all tone. “I know everything about my clients. And I want you to know that I never would have agreed to this. I don’t know how you got her to do it, but you are one lucky bitch.
“Listen up,” she says, coming in close to my face, wagging her finger at me. “I’ve got half of Hollywood’s best lawyers on standby for this. If you mess it up, it’s not just the magazine that will pay, it will be your ass. I’ll have you taken down faster than you can snap a photo of Melodie’s fat thighs. Got it?”