by Daryl Banner
“Drawing,” I answer. “I also paint and sculpt, but I’m best with charcoal.”
“Wow. You do it all, huh?”
Brant’s still calling for the bartender with his back to us, fruitlessly trying to catch one as they rush around helping other customers and seeming to outright ignore him.
“So you’re a creative writing major?” I ask.
Dmitri smiles appreciatively. “I am.”
“Working on anything new lately?”
“Yes!” His eyes light up, the excitement and joy of writing evident even in his beady, black, and otherwise untelling eyes. “I just finished this thing about an undeadish organ donor, and now I’m on a death-themed kick, so I thought I might write something about this guy who masturbates too much, and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” interjects a guy who rushes Dmitri from the side, throwing an arm over his back. He’s kind of plain-faced, but handsome and tanned, with a long gangly build and tightly parted sandy-brown hair. “No one wants to hear about that.”
“It’s a story I’m working on,” Dmitri retorts. “You didn’t even—”
“No one cares, sweetie. Hi. I’m Eric.” The new guy nods at me. “Are you—?”
“Nell,” Dmitri answers on my behalf, annoyed at him for cutting him off. “The girl from the art school who Brant’s been seeing.”
“Oh! Her!” Eric straightens up, flashing all his teeth with a bright smile. “I’m so rude! Please do tell her about your masturbation story, then. Anything to scare her as far away from Brant as possible.”
Dmitri groans. “Eric …”
“I’m teasing, I’m teasing. But really, Brant’s horrible. He almost let me give him head.”
“Eric!”
“He’s awful, Nell. He’s such a gay cocktease and that’s, like, the worst kind. I love him, but run while you can.”
Brant, oblivious to all of this, arrives with two Dos Equis, one of which he extends to me. “Here you go. Oh, hey there, Eric. I see you’ve all met …?”
Eric makes a twisted face at him, not unlike one he might make if he’d stubbed his toe, and I can’t help but burst into laughter. Dmitri joins in, snorting and hiding his face with his own bottle.
“The fuck’s going on?” Brant asks, lifting his eyebrows quizzically at us.
I recover enough to take the bottle from him and say, “Eric is just giving me the rundown, that’s it.”
“Ah, crap. What’s he saying? Eric, dude, what’d you say?”
“Only nice lies and evil truths.” Eric’s face has turned a few shades of pink as he swallows his laughter. “You know, I need to tell Dessie about Kirk the violinist. She wanted all the details, she’s gonna get them, including the ones she probably doesn’t need to know. Hey, we’ve got a table up by the stage. Come join us when you’re ready!”
And with that, Eric slips away into the quicksand of the crowd, gone in an instant.
Brant leans into Dmitri, who seems to be pouting irritably. “Dude, don’t let it get to you. I bet Kirk’s got a tiny wiener.”
“It’s not getting to me. I don’t care,” Dmitri spits back, lifting the bottle to his lips and glaring.
“Just tell Eric you want him. Tell him and get it over with, dude, he’s basically waiting for you.”
“No he’s not, and I don’t want him. I want Riley.”
“Oh yeah! Where is she? I thought you were bringing her.”
Dmitri shakes his head. “Went back home for the weekend. Family time and some cousin’s birthday and blah, blah, blah …”
“Oh, yeah. She’s a daddy’s girl, I remember you saying.”
Dmitri takes another swig of his beer, then huffs impatiently and takes off in the same direction as Eric, pushing his way through the noisy crowd.
Brant shrugs, leans into the counter and lifts his eyes to me. “My friends are all so damn complicated.”
“And you’re so simple?” I tease him, lifting the bottle to my lips. He watches my mouth pointedly as I kick back the drink, letting its bitter taste wash over my tongue. I love having Brant’s complete and utter attention.
I’d bet six beers he’s already growing stiff in his pants by watching my lips and tongue make easy work of the mouth of this bottle.
“Nah,” I murmur after finishing my sip. “Not that simple.”
“I’ve never been so jealous of a bottle before.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
He nods resolutely. “My pleasure. I thought you said in the parking lot that you wanted liquor.”
“I’m of a mind to make smarter decisions tonight,” I inform him.
His brow wrinkles. “Uh, does that mean no bathroom blowjobs?”
I snort. “Definitely none of those.”
“A bar-side handy’s out of the question?”
“Completely.”
He makes a mock show of disappointment, hissing through his teeth before kicking his own Dos Equis back. “I can be a good boy,” he decides after his swig. “Hey, I saw this flyer outside of my class about an End Of Year Showcase or something …”
The lights in the whole bar dim, and then a roar of excitement thunders over the room and steals away whatever Brant was about to say regarding the showcase. I don’t know if he saw the flyer and intends to submit any of his photos or not, but he’d better be prepared for some serious scrutiny. The heads of the Art department don’t mess around when it comes to their precious End Of Year Showcase. I had my work turned down the first two times I submitted. Both times I was denied with a callous, harsh note of what I dare call “constructive criticism” and a gently-worded reason for why my piece was not selected. It would be some kind of hilarious, life-upturning irony if any of Brant’s submissions were to get in his first try.
Then I hear my own thoughts and suddenly wonder if I’m being unfair. He has depth, I remind myself. You’ve seen it. You even encouraged it. Hell, there’s probably more to Brant than I’ll ever realize.
And maybe that’s a good thing; it helps keep my interest in him.
“It’s about to start,” he whispers into my ear.
Just that whisper sends a hundred tiny bolts of electricity lightly dancing down my neck. I shiver pleasurably at the memory of the kiss we shared on top of that building the other night, and the kiss we shared in that tiny room at the art gallery …
And the one now.
I bring my lips to his quickly, catching him off-guard. Then I let go just as fast, smirking victoriously to myself as Brant stares after me in a surprised stupor. I love being in control.
The room hushes when a girl takes the stage. She’s curvy and sweet like a porcelain doll on the top shelf. She has long straight hair which she tosses the moment she’s in view of everyone, as if it was rehearsed. Maybe it was. She smiles and the whole world explodes into glitter and bright yellow sunshine.
I haven’t even heard her sing and I already can’t stand her.
“Hey there,” she murmurs into the microphone, acting all shy. “We have quite a turnout tonight! For those who don’t know me, I’m Desdemona Lebeau, but you can call me Dessie.”
She’s like Renée Brigand in cute, singer songwriter form. Gag me.
“I have a new song for you. The boys and I have been working really hard on it. Now let me try to sing it and let’s hope I don’t fuck it all up,” she adds with a quirk of her eyebrows, earning her an endearing wave of laughs throughout the room—and a rolling of eyes from me. “This song,” she says softly, “is called Can’t See Your Face.”
She brings her lips to the microphone. Then the band starts to play and, after a dramatic intake of breath, Dessie sings.
I hate you
when you’re away
Because I
can’t see your face
That face I
have come to love
That face I
can’t get enough of.
She’s signing all her words to the crowd with her hands. Are there deaf people among us,
or is this just part of her performance? I kick back my bottle, listening as her song crescendos into the first chorus.
Everything I have, someone else gave me
But this thing between you and I, it’s mine
And if you look closely, you’ll see what I see in you
in time.
And even if every note of this song is silent
The music rings perfectly true
That I’m meant for you, and you’re meant for me
too.
Take them off
all your clothes
So I can see
what lies beneath
Then take off
all your skin
Let me know you.
Let me in.
The music takes over as Dessie sways gently, slow-dancing with her microphone as she closes her eyes, the band filling the space with a melody that mimics the one she just sang. I turn my eyes slightly, catching Brant at my side as he watches her with wonder.
And I wonder if I’ll ever let him in. I wonder if I’ll ever let him know me … the real me, the dark me, the silent shadows I won’t even dare let my only friend Minnie near.
Yes, I hate you
when you turn away
Because I can’t …
can’t see your face
That face that I
will soon set free
That face that looks
right back at me.
Right back at me.
Then it’s over. Somehow the whole room seems to know precisely when the song means to end because they’re applauding and hooting even before the band plays the final chord.
Onstage, Dessie smiles sheepishly and gives a cute wave to the crowd, then thanks them several times, but even her thanks amplified by the microphone is lost to the masses of cheers and hooting that fill the whole place. She steps off the stage and the band picks up with some nameless tune as the bar returns to its usual banter.
“Let’s go meet the talent!” exclaims Brant, taking me by the hand.
Oh, yippy.
We cut through the crowd and make it to a tall table near the foot of the stage where Dmitri, Eric, and a number of others are gathered, standing around the table shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s an excellent thing that I’m not the claustrophobic type because if I was, I’d be desperately searching for an inch of oxygen that isn’t being shared by ten other people, what with the sheer number of bodies in this place.
“What a great job, Dessie, for real,” Eric is telling her. “For a song about love, I wasn’t expecting your first lyrics to be ‘I hate you’, though.”
“I liked the lyrics,” adds a girl with thick-rimmed glasses—much like Dmitri’s—and dark hair that tumbles jaggedly to her shoulders. Her voice is a perfect, lifeless monotone.
“The music was a bit repetitive,” throws in a redheaded guy at her side with a thin-lipped tiny mouth.
“Don’t criticize, Tomas,” complains the girl.
“But I liked the chord progression,” he says quickly, offering Dessie a shrug. “Sorry. I always go for honesty first.”
Dessie smiles. “I’ll take honesty. It’s the only thing that makes an artist—”
From nowhere, a muscular hunk with a face granted by the gods appears at Dessie’s side, takes her in his arms, and plants a kiss on her lips, cutting her off mid-sentence. She laughs into his kiss, then slaps his arm playfully.
And this diva’s got the hot-as-fuck boyfriend? Really?
“You were beautiful up there,” he says to her, his rich, dark eyes pouring into hers with lust.
He sounds kind of funny. I can’t put my finger on it, but his words slur slightly—and not in the had-one-tequila-shot-too-many way.
“Great job, Des!” calls out Brant from my side, lifting his bottle, then he leans into me and says, “That’s my boy, Clayton. Ex-roommate, told you about him?”
I remember now, so I give Brant a nod as I watch Dessie make another annoying, demonstrative show of pushing herself into Clayton and kissing him. It’s either impressive or nauseating that, even with the noise of the place, I can still seem to hear their mouths smacking.
When they pull apart, Clayton says, “Your lyrics were beautiful, babe.”
It’s like he has a lisp. I’m still squinting at him trying to figure it out when Dmitri taps him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. Then Dmitri starts signing to him and offering his congratulations to Dessie. With his hands.
Oh. I’m an asshole. Clayton’s deaf.
“You didn’t tell me,” I murmur in Brant’s ear, watching Dmitri’s hands move with deftness.
“Tell you what? Oh! About Clayton?”
“I feel like an asshole.”
“Why?”
“I was …” I sigh. Some judgmental thoughts, I guess, are better left unsaid. “Never mind.”
“Hey, Sam. I have another song I’m working on,” Dessie starts telling the girl with the glasses and the generally dead eyes. “I’m having trouble with the music. You wanna get together tomorrow maybe and, like … experiment with it? Figure out why the chords aren’t working?”
“Absolutely,” returns Sam, and it might be the cheeriest word I’ve ever heard uttered deadpan.
“What about … our thing?” asks Tomas, the boy at her side, who I’m surmising is a friend of Sam’s, though the nature of their relationship is entirely a mystery, considering how utterly unromantic they seem toward each other. They could be brother and sister, if it weren’t for the drastically contrasting hair and differently-shaped faces.
“What thing? Oh, that thing. I … don’t want to do that thing.”
“But we talked about doing that thing.”
Brant leans forward. “Is ‘that thing’ some kind of clever sexual euphemism, or …?”
“Naturally you’d think that,” blurts Dessie with a teasing smile, inspiring a laugh from the others. “If someone isn’t talking about sex or bowling, you’re bored to tears. And even bowling is all balls.” Suddenly her eyes meet mine and a look of worry crosses them. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m being totally rude. Don’t listen to me. I’ve known Brant for over a year now. I’ve basically earned the right to make fun of him whenever I want. He’s a great guy. Ignore me.”
The faces at the table turn to me, laughter in them. The only face I regard is Brant’s, who regards me with a sheepish smirk.
“Remarkable assessment,” I finally say, acknowledging Dessie’s utterly inept and skewed presumption of who Brant is, “for someone who’s known him ‘over a year’, as you put it. I’ve not even known him for a month, and while I am all too aware of Brant’s hornucopia of a brain,” I go on, my eyes narrowing, “I’m also aware of his keen eye, his attention to detail, and his artistic integrity. If it weren’t for those things, I wouldn’t be standing at this table right now having just listened to a girl sing about how much she hates her lover’s face.”
Dessie looks like I just slapped her in the face. “I—That wasn’t what the song—I mean, Clayton’s deaf. I don’t like his face when he looks away because I—”
“Because he can’t read your self-important lips?” I finish for her, incensed by the way she just dismissed Brant with a handful of words and everyone at this table thinks it’s okay, Brant included. “If you’d spend less attention on Brant’s lips and whatever jokes come out of them, you’d see a driven artist behind a camera instead of some lowly horn-dog who’s just here for everyone’s amusement.”
No, I didn’t slap Dessie’s face earlier with my words. Now I have, and the sting is evident in the way her eyes well up instantly. Whether it’s with hurt or indignance, I don’t know her well enough to say.
Maybe I don’t know her at all. Maybe I’m being the asshole here.
And besides that, what am I even saying to these people? Why the hell am I defending Brant, calling him an artist with integrity and all that bullshit?
What’s gotten into me …?
When I look at Brant, I see
a flicker of doubt in his eyes, and that’s when I realize I may have gone too far. He just brought me to meet his friends and all I’m succeeding in doing is being rude and embarrassing the hell out of him.
“I need to hit the ladies’ room,” I say dryly, dismissing myself from the table.
Cutting through the crowd, I make my way toward the wrong corner of the bar and find myself standing in front of an exit door instead of the bathroom. With a roll of my eyes, I seek the restrooms over a hundred heads and bodies standing in the way. Pushing to the opposite corner, I find the tiny hall that leads to my destination, then push through the door into the restroom.
I twist on a faucet and stare at my face in the mirror. This is the reason you don’t have friends, I remind myself with a cold stare into my own eyes. I hate that I always learn these valuable lessons in the worst situations.
And why am I so damn quick to jump to judgments about people? I wonder if something in Dessie’s tone reminded me of the girls on the bus who tore apart my artwork. Or the ones in the cafeteria who threw food at me.
Or the one I call Mom who raised me.
Maybe the thought that scares me the most is if Dessie doesn’t remind me of any of those terrible women in my life. Maybe it was seeing her performing her art in front of this room full of people who were eager to see her, who downright adore her, and for her work to be received with praise and screams of joy. Maybe she’s the kind of artist I want to be someday: celebrated, revered, and … liked.