"I know very little about religions, but I know of a lot of them." He smiled. "It's a hobby of mine, studying religions."
I noted he didn't answer the question about school. "That's a strange hobby for a really rich guy to have," I said. "All the rich guys I know are all about making business deals or picking up hookers or doing blow or golfing until their hands fall off."
"I know," he said. "I don't find the society of people I belong to to be particularly suited for my temperament." His mouth twisted, somewhat ruefully. "But I can't very well move downward to socialize. I don't really fit in anywhere right now."
"Fitting in is overrated," I said. "Especially if you're going to be an artist. You need to cultivate that individuality."
"You think so?" he asked. "But if what I say doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, what point is saying it?"
Holy shit, I thought. This conversation was getting far more existential than I was used to. I'd had plenty of conversations about the nature of art, maaaaaaaaan, but they had usually been while I and my friends were high as hell, and they didn't make sense afterward. "Personal satisfaction?" I hazarded.
"Is that why you do it?" he asked me.
I sat back in the booth, not sure how to answer that. Part of art was a fundamental LOOK, LOOK AT ME desire, but essentially you wanted people to look at you because you thought you had something unique and interesting to say. I wasn't sure if I had ever managed to do that. My sales certainly didn't indicate that I resonated with many people. Usually I soothed myself by hoping I had merely transcended human consciousness and touched the realm of the divine or some other such garbage, but I knew it was because I wasn't communicating clearly. Or I was alone.
Not like Felicia. Felicia's art was stunning. Raw and exposed, she peeled back the niceties of society and revealed the emotional muscle and bone and sinew beneath. Her art was nothing like mine. And besides, I hadn't really put paint to canvas in the past month. Or two. Or was it three...?
Horrified, I thought back, trying to remember the last time I'd done any sort of artwork, and I couldn't remember. I gave a bitter little laugh. "I don't know why I do it. Or did it. I don't do art so much any more. I'm usually pretty tired after work." That sounded ungrateful. "I mean, my job is a great job and all and I love working for Lis, but I'm so drained by the time that I get home that I don't have much to say."
The waiter brought our naan and rice, the prelude to our meal, but when he retreated Malcolm put his hand on my knee. Warm ripples of sensation spread out over my skin, and I swallowed, hard. I'd been trying not to think about how close he was, about how every cell in my body seemed magically attuned to his presence. His hand wiped all that pretense away and I caught my breath. "Isn't that something to say in and of itself?" he asked me. "Isn't weariness an emotion?"
I shrugged, feeling silly. "Yeah, but everyone feels that way."
"Then that should resonate with your audience."
I hadn't quite thought about it that way. Yes, saying the same thing over again wasn't new, but that didn't mean I couldn't try to say it in a new way.
Of course, how I was going to do that with paint and bits of flotsam found in Central Park was the question. I liked my mediums. I probably just didn't know how to use them.
"I don't know," I said. "That seems like a long time ago for some reason.
The waiter returned with our meals—the lamb shahi korma for Malcolm, and the saag paneer for me—then retreated, and Malcolm, to my disappointment, removed his hand and began to apportion the dishes. "May I see some of your art some time?" he asked me.
"Yeah, I guess. It's all at my apartment, stored in the spare room in the back. And some of it is in galleries around the city."
"Any nearby?"
I thought. "I don't think so. Not here anyway. Maybe closer to your house. Anton has a piece of mine, I know that."
"I would like very much to see some of it, to witness how a professional does her work." He tore off a bit of naan and used it to sop up some of the sauce before wrapping it around a chunk of lamb and delicately popping it into his mouth. His whole body relaxed when it hit his tongue. "Aaaah," he said. "There is nothing like knowing the peace of a well-seasoned meal."
The expression on his face was one of pure bliss, and I found myself strangely jealous that it should be a hunk of dead farmyard animal that had made him so happy. Our sexual encounters so far had been entirely one-sided, although I suppose Malcolm got quite a bit of pleasure from eating me out, if his straining erections afterward were anything to go by. I felt rather annoyed that I hadn't yet reciprocated, but it made sense. In his studio, in his room, I was the object of study, of worship by the camera lens. But out here in the world, we were two equals. Well, not equals, but we were at least on neutral ground. I slipped my hand under the tablecloth and placed it on the inside of his thigh.