The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  The cool air of the spring night is a welcome relief from the smothering tensions of the restaurant. We don’t stop moving until Whiteread’s is at least three blocks away, dashing through the streets in silence until we come to a recognizable part of the area. Viridian’s studio isn’t far from here. Fitz slumps against a brick wall covered in graffiti, staring up at the starry skies as if begging for an answer from above. I don’t blame him.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” he says.

  “It’s not your fault. I can see why you avoid him.”

  He shrugs. “That’s nothing. You should check out Christmas dinners at our house.”

  Tonight hasn’t been a confession so much as it’s been an autopsy of Fitz and what made him who he is. Some of the most excruciating details of his life have been sliced open in front of me. It was far more intimate and revealing than the performances he works so hard on, the art he changed everything for.

  “I’m sorry he ruined our night,” Fitz sighs, still holding my hand. “I’d planned for it to go a little better than this.”

  “You can make it up to me on our next date,” I reply. A smile instantly appears on his face.

  “Our next date?”

  “Of course. We’re still going to give this a shot, right? No disguises, no performing, just us.”

  “I can do that.” Fitz nods and leans forward before pulling back quickly. “Can I kiss you now?”

  I shake my head. I truly do want to kiss him, especially after all he’s just been through, but I know this is the right decision to make for us both at this moment in time. He nods again then lifts my hand to his lips. His touch is so gentle I can barely feel it, but my body still tingles with joy.

  “Come on, I’ll take you back to Viridian’s before she organizes an angry mob to come and find you.”

  We walk back to Viridian’s studio hand in hand, looking like every other young and well-dressed couple in the Lower East Side. We blend in and nobody pays much attention to us. After the dinner show that unfolded earlier, the pair of us is ready to blend in for a while. This short journey is probably the most normal moment we’ve each experienced in a very long time. It’s a pleasant distraction, but we both know it won’t last. Neither of us does normal.

  Maybe that’s why this could work?

  “You want to grab a coffee tomorrow?” Fitz asks as we approach the steps to the narrow building that Viridian calls home. “There’s this great espresso bar on Orchard that just opened up and I think we need to talk some more. About things and such. Without my father interrupting us, that is.”

  I nod without thinking it through. “Sounds great,” I say. I cast a glance back up at the building and giggle nervously. “I guess this is goodnight.”

  Before I came to New York a few short weeks ago, I had never been on a date, kissed anyone, or even thought about anything other than virginal things. Fitz leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, letting his lips rest over the curve of my jaw.

  Instinct pulls my face toward his and our lips touch. Even against the cold spring night, the air seems to warm around us. His hand circles around my neck and pulls me close. With my eyes closed, the sticky closeness of his mouth against mine, breath minty, skin smelling of cologne... Everything is a thousand times stronger than what it would normally be, and I love every moment of it.

  He finally pulls away and smiles at me. “I’ll pick you up at 11 o’clock in the morning?” he asks. “I’ll meet you down here.”

  I smile and nod, lost once more in the moment. “Sounds good to me.”

  In the shadows, Fitz looks just as flushed as I feel. “Good night,” he tells me.

  “Good night,” I reply.

  Fitz makes it a few feet before he stops and turns back. “And we can discuss maybe you coming back to my apartment? Maybe?”

  I snort and say, “Maybe.”

  With that, he disappears into the night and I make my way back up to Viridian’s abode. She opens the door, falls asleep once more clutching what I assume is a bottle of vodka, and leaves me to dwell on everything before I doze off. I don’t even notice the paper on the table, my face - my old face - plastered on the cover staring helplessly into space.

  CHAPTER 23.

  Compared to the night before, full of emotion and lust, the coffee shop is still and awkward. The room around us is filled with life and energy. College students chat about homework and philosophy, life and film, and other fun things I can’t fathom, but Fitz seems withdrawn and quiet. Almost like he was hiding some dark secret from me, a secret that I could never be privy to lest my world burn up in flames. Or else he was PMSing, something I highly doubted.

  “Are you feeling alright?” I ask, taking a tiny sip of the extremely bitter coffee. I wonder if Fitz has any taste buds left if he thinks this crap is great. “You’re being really quiet.”

  He looks up at me and shakes his head, tossing his dark boyish hair about. In just a few weeks, it’s gotten shaggy and ragged-looking. “No, I’m fine. I’m just thinking.”

  I dump another spoonful of sugar into the coffee and say, “You know, if you’re not feeling good, we can just call it a day and go get you some aspirin or something.”

  “I’m fine,” Fitz snaps. Maybe male PMS is possible after all.

  I shrink back a little and sip some more. “Okay then,” I say. “No need to be testy.”

  Fitz pushes a hand through his hair and sighs deeply. “I saw you on the news this morning,” he says, keeping his voice low against the chatter of a dozen loud voices. “Well, on the computer. Another press conference. They tracked you to the train station, but some witness came forward to say a man paid for your ticket and went you.”

  Every muscle in my body goes stiff. “What? What man?”

  He shakes his head. “I wasn’t there, remember?”

  I vaguely remember the man who took pity on me and paid for my ticket as I stood sobbing in front of the ticket counter, pleading for mercy with no plan and no idea what to do. He paid with his card, I thanked him through my tears and he told me to just get on the train and not to worry about it. After that, I don’t know where he went. I never saw him in my carriage and he definitely didn’t accompany me on my journey. This one charitable soul had saved me. If it had been anyone else standing behind me as I begged for a ticket with my pitiful funds, I don’t know if my fate would have been the same.

  “What else did they say?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  “Not much. They said they were tracking down the details of the guy who bought the ticket. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know. He just paid for it and left. I didn’t have enough money myself. Never saw him again after that.”

  I take a giant gulp of coffee to calm my growing nerves. This is all too much. Even just thinking about the possibility of being discovered saps me of my confidence. All those weeks of transformation may as well have been for nothing. No matter how hard I try I will never be free of it all. I’ll never be free of him.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Fitz says, leaning in close to wipe a tear from my face. I didn’t even know I’d started crying. “They don’t know where you got off. They’re looking for that guy, not you. We’re going to deal with this, okay?”

  It’s hard to remain calm with this new revelation, even as Fitz drags his chair around the table to sit closer to me. I deliberately avoided the news these past few weeks. The sight of my old self surrounded by columns of overwrought journalism and quotes from my dad were too much to bear. Maybe I should have kept up with developments, just to make sure things were still safe, but every reminder of the life I’d escaped and the lie being pushed to assure my return felt like a knife in the back.

  I push back further tears and let Fitz pull my rigid form against him.

  “Can we please talk about something else?” I ask.

  “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Don’t care. Anything that isn’t this.”

  “Okay.” He kisses m
y hair and strokes my neck. The shaved parts of my hair are beginning to grow back and the dark roots are showing. Viridian said she would fix it for me tonight. Now more than ever, keeping up appearances is a top priority.

  “How’s the gallery prep going?” I ask. “Sorry I’ve been a terrible assistant lately.”

  “It’s going surprisingly well. I’ve been getting ready by doing my performance exercises.”

  “Do I even want to know what you classify as performance exercises?” I say, imagining Fitz jumping up and down around his apartment naked and chanting.

  Actually, that’s probably pretty close to the truth.

  “Believe it or not, it takes practice to sit in the same position for 8 hours. It’s not as easy as it looks. You have to deal with the mental strain as well as the physical. I once did a piece where I walked backward through a gallery for 24 hours straight using a mirror as my guide. That hurt. A lot.”

  “Okay, you’re going to have to explain to me how that one’s art.”

  Fitz laughs and shakes his head. “Your continuing confusion over my art is adorable. It’s about the journeys we take every day and how changing one simple thing, like the direction, can completely alter our perceptions of everything.”

  “Were you naked for this one too?”

  “Of course!” He declares proudly. “The human form in all its vulnerable glory, taking a trip through the unknown while the world watches.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’m sure Fitz could find any excuse to be naked in public and call it art. Then again, if I had his body I would probably burn all my clothes and go live in a nudist colony.

  “I have a question, Fitz. Is there anything you don’t consider art?”

  He thinks about it for a second, obviously very amused by my question.

  “I’m sure this is a trick question, but I’ll bite. The short answer is no.”

  I snort.

  “But,” he continues. “It’s more than that. Anyone can make art and anything can be art because no two people are the same and no two people share the exact same reactions to the same things. Even if I’m the only person in the world who considers what I do art, nobody else can take that away from me.”

  I remain unsure. “Then what does ‘art’ even mean if anything can be art? I mean, you said that pile of garbage was art but do you think your overflowing trash-can in the kitchen is art?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to empty that.”

  “So,” I say, holding up my half full ceramic coffee cup with the cafe’s logo on the side. “Is this art?”

  “I think you’re mocking me a little bit now, my dear assistant,” he murmurs against my hair. I am, just a little, but it’s oh so much fun! I tilt my head and our lips connect in a long and slow kiss. It would be so easy to just melt into him and never have to worry about anything else for as long as I live.

  “We really should go to a gallery sometime,” Fitz tells me. His nose bumps against mine in between more kisses. “You desperately need an education. I’m determined to find one piece of modern art that you like.”

  “I like art,” I insist. “I’m not totally uncultured. I just don’t see what’s so wrong with paintings. Viridian’s paintings are interesting. What did you used to paint?”

  “Oh god,” he groans. “Those things. Crappy self-portraits. I set fire to them in one of my performances. Almost set the whole gallery alight, but it was worth it. I like paintings too, but everyone’s done them and I didn’t think I could really be original in my expressions if I did what my entire class at art school did.”

  “So nobody else ever did naked performance art before you?”

  “Well...” He draws out the syllable, suddenly looking a little sheepish.

  “Ha!” I exclaim, pointing my finger at his chest. “So original, right? You poser!”

  “It’s not... Come on, it doesn’t have to be 100% original,” he says, stumbling over his words as he backtracks for his life. “Nobody can be completely original in... in terms of the... you know, the tools they use. We have a lineage we must follow and become part of.”

  I’m laughing too hard to listen to his artsy explanation for his pretentions. Getting one over on Fitz on his favorite topic, something that has completely boggled my mind since arriving in this city, is satisfying on so many levels. It makes a change for me to be the one causing embarrassment instead of being on the receiving end.

  “You’re being very cruel,” he says, pouting dramatically. “Just as well I like you or I would have to exact revenge.”

  I’m still laughing.

  “You’ll see,” he warns me. “Dating a pretentious asshole can have its benefits. Want some more coffee?”

  “Sure, go for it.”

  With one more kiss, Fitz leaves to get a refill and my laughter splutters out to an easier to control snigger. Feeling far more relaxed, I take in the sights around me as I wait for another cup of unappealing coffee from the man I’m sort of dating. I struggle to call it dating as it is right now, since last night’s familial strife with accompanying meal could hardly be called ideal date material. I guess a cup of coffee in a public place technically counts as a date, but how many instances like this do we need to share before we can officially say that we’re dating? It’s times like this I wish life came with a guidebook.

  I pick up some high end fashion magazine from the empty table next to ours and flick through it mindlessly as I wait, hearing Derek’s style critiques in my head with each page. Across the room someone chokes on their drink and I instinctively look up toward them. The bespectacled young man, around my age, splutters into a napkin. Our gazes meet for a second before he tilts his head downwards. Suddenly feeling as if I’m prying, I go back to the magazine, yet cannot shake the sensation that I’m being watched. From across the glossy pages, I peer back toward the coughing man, who is definitely looking at me but trying to hide it. I look down and up a few more times to see if he’s still staring, and each time my gaze is up, there is a momentary connection between us before he scrambles to look busy with something else.

  He’s watching me.

  He knows.

  All of a sudden, I feel eyes all over me. If he’s watching me, how many other people are? My face has been everywhere and there’s only so much a drastic haircut and some expensive dresses can conceal. I’m a number one news story. People are looking for me.

  They’re watching me.

  A stack of newspapers sits by the service area, free to all who desire one. I know my face is plastered all over the front pages, with pleading words put in my mouth by my father.

  They’re all watching me.

  It’s too much. I have to get out.

  I ignore Fitz’s question as I dash past him, not knowing where I’m going. I just need to get out of this space as quickly as possible. Pressure is building in my chest. My hands shake and the freshly painted walls of the ladies’ bathroom I’ve just barged into seem to be closing in on me. I slump to the floor in one of the cubicles and begin to sob, yanking at my hair as I do so. The tugging pain is a brief respite from the heaving breaths I struggle to get out of my system.

  When Fitz comes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, I barely notice. Even when he kneels to my level and encases my body in his arms, I barely feel them until he slowly coaxes my hands away from my hair and into his own. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t offer vague platitudes or tell me how everything’s going to be okay, because we both know neither of us believe that. He simply holds me in silence until I can breathe again. I don’t know how long it takes - it feels like an age - but he waits there with me, patiently and quietly, until the tears have dried up and I’m able to speak properly.

  “I’m scared,” I admit breathily.

  “So am I.”

  “What if he finds me? What if the police turn up on our doorstep and make me go back?”

  “We’ll deal with that. You’re not going anywhere, okay?”

  “
You can’t promise that.”

  He doesn’t reply for a few moments, so I rest my head against his neck, enjoying the calm before the storm that will inevitably hit.

  “Marina,” Fitz says, sounding so sure of himself. “We will deal with this. I told you he was never going to hurt you again, and I meant it. Whatever happens, I’ll be with you.”

  I want to believe him. I know I can’t, but I nod anyway. My head thumps with a dull pain thanks to all my crying. I must look a state. I let Fitz pull me to my feet and I wash my face with crisp, cold water, trying to lessen my reddened cheeks and bloodshot eyes, removing my makeup as I do. As much as it pains me to return to the real world with all those prying eyes and hushed gossipers, I know I must.

  Once my face has returned to its normal color, I give Fitz a look and nod, signaling that I’m ready for... well, ready for whatever it is I need to face. He leans in for a kiss, a few seconds of soft lips pressed gently against mine in an almost chaste gesture, and I let myself be fully taken in by it.

  The kiss deepens and Fitz pushes me against the sinks. My body arches against his, flesh separated only by flimsy cotton and not enough to conceal how warm his skin is and how much I want this.

  This is it. There’s nothing else in the world but him and you.

  His hands wander over me as my own push his shaggy hair out of his eyes. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell how hesitant he’s being with me. Too many memories of close encounters and misjudged moments.

  Not today.

  I take one of his hands from my waist and guide it to the line where the hem of my skirt meets my thigh. He pulls back from our kiss, eyes still closed but his emotions clear.

  “Yes,” I simply say, pushing his hand under my skirt.

  After that, he doesn’t need any more permission. With his lips sucking softly at my neck, he presses the heel of his hand against my panties. Even this small amount of pressure is enough to make me whimper. It would be so easy to give into this wonderful feeling that’s left me jelly-legged and mewling, to relinquish all control to Fitz and his oh so talented hands. Yet, even now, he seems to be holding back, pressing rhythmically against my wet panties but never daring to go further when I clearly and desperately want more.