Beneath The Skin(91)

“Nah,” I grunt. “I doubt it. I mean, well, maybe she’ll come. I don’t know. Shit.” I draw closer to the mirror, inspecting a spot on my face. “Is that a bruise?”

“Mosquito bite, maybe. So wait, dude. Have you even talked to her since …?”

“Nope.”

“Not a peep? Not even seen her at the school?”

For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, but I did take a day to go down a few streets “in the bad side of town” and found myself at the Westwood Light, where I was met by the woman who supposedly hates Nell, yet lets her continue to come and spend time with the children. “It’s important for them to be exposed to the arts. I always had a soft spot for that,” the woman explained to me. I asked if Nell was around, though the answer was clear when I went into the room with the kids and didn’t find her there. The next two hours were spent at the circular table creating art with the children and feeling my own inspirations flare up inside me at the sight of their unadulterated joy. “Are you Nell’s friend?” a girl asked. “Do you and Nell kiss?” asked one of the older girls, inspiring a bunch of grossed-out reactions from the littler ones. I laughed so much that day, I almost forgot the reason I’d come to the Westwood Light in the first place. After a quick talk with the supervisor on duty that day, I got special permission to engage in a different sort of artistic activity, in which I pulled out my camera, got the kids gathered around, and collaborated on a fun, impromptu sort of project. I had wished Nell was there with me.

“No,” I answer, my response much delayed. I pick up two buttons from the lip of the sink, confused. “What in gay hell are these?”

“Cufflinks. Dude, you’re a lost cause. Gimme.”

Dmitri swipes them out of my hand and grabs my wrists, directing me to hold them steady as he puts my cufflinks on for me. Once again I followed Eric’s expert advice and invested in a full-on tux, complete with a black bowtie, fitted white starched shirt, and a measured-to-my-every-sleeve-and-inseam jacket and slacks.

“Your hair …”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, cutting him off. “I’m not used to the whole tuxedo thing. Figured I should be all business and formality from neck down, then all party on my head.”

I run a hand through my hair to ensure it’s still the precise level of out-of-control I want. The trick to proper bedhead is making sure, after spending hours styling it, that it looks like you took no time at all.

“I think you’re ready,” Dmitri decides, giving me a onceover.

I feel like something’s missing. My nerves seem to be charged with some kind of electricity I don’t remember putting there, and my heart thumps like I’m back from a five mile jog, yet all I’m doing is standing here in front of the mirror.

“Something’s missing,” I decide to voice.

“Like what?” There’s a knock at the door. “Oh, she’s here.”

“Who?”

“My imaginary date you think doesn’t exist. You look perfect, dude. Just chill and take a few deep breaths or something and we’ll, y’know … we’ll go in and, like, own the place or something. Practice your spiels and stuff. Everyone’s going to ask you what your exhibit meant and what inspired you and blah, blah … I’ll be right back.”

Dmitri leaves me in the bathroom to stare at myself. I swallow hard, right my bowtie again, then wonder what the hell is missing.

I’m still wondering when we’re walking to the art school. Riley is walking ahead of me with Dmitri as we go. She actually does exist, by the way. Who knew? I’m staring at the backside of her pretty blonde curls the whole way there. She’s a dainty thing, this Riley, which is a curious contrast to Dmitri’s dark, punkish look. She’s like the rose and he’s the thorn colored in black guy-liner.

The school glows with the light from the gallery, which is a separate wing that runs in the opposite direction of where all the studios and classrooms are located. When we reach the tall glass doors, I feel a quiver of anticipation in my gut that makes me equal parts sick and horny. I can’t explain the horniness. Maybe I’m the sex addict. Maybe everything makes me horny.

Or maybe every time I walk into an art gallery, I’ll imagine Nell pushing me against the wall and covering my lips with hers.

Maybe I feel the cold kiss of each cuff as she bound me to that platform nearly naked, turning me into her Object.

Maybe I get the sensation of all my clothes falling off my body, one by one, article by article, until there’s nothing left but skin.