Chapter 3
WHEN DOVES CRY
Cosmo - Three Years Ago
Cosmo sliced through a particularly tough bundle of twine holding a set of paintings together. Bubble wrap popped and deflated, and he carefully pulled it away. He set down the X-Acto and shook shreds of plastic from his gloved hands.
After giving the idea some thought, he’d wondered if it was selfish to throw his own funeral party and invite people to attend.
People didn’t throw their own baby showers or retirement parties.
But they did throw their own birthday parties and wedding receptions.
Cosmo wasn’t asking people to buy something off a gift registry at Shady Meadows Funeral Home.
He wanted them to enjoy themselves and in return get a little support.
It was tempting to start drafting a eulogy first, but the obituary would come before the funeral. And he needed invitations, of course. Decor. Flowers. A burial outfit. There was so much to do!
Was food served at funerals? It had been so long since he’d attended one that he couldn’t remember. But it wouldn’t be a party without food and booze.
Foie gras. No. Not after learning the poor ducks were force-fed through a feeding tube to fatten their livers.
Paté then. And brie with those crackers that–
A hand closed over his shoulder, and he gasped.
Royce stepped back. The director’s tie was crooked, the back room’s fluorescent lighting washing out his fair skin and glancing off his balding head.
The gaunt cut of his jaw and his intense blue gaze made him look intimidating, but when he smiled, a little of the harshness dissolved.
“Didn’t mean to startle you. I said your name three times. ”
“Ah, sorry. Lost in thought.” Cosmo turned back to the unwrapped painting and blew a shred of bubble wrap from the thick impasto strokes.
Hopefully Royce didn’t think he was slacking off.
Identical Dog was one of the most prestigious galleries in Lemon Disco, and it was only Cosmo’s second week.
He and Royce had both been at the party the night before, and Cosmo’s public breakup with Zedd likely hadn’t made the best impression.
“The packaging on Allen’s block prints was horrendous.
A piece of masking tape was stuck to two of them; I believe I sweated out half my body weight trying to peel it off without damaging the prints.
I wasn’t completely successful.” Cosmo picked up the damned strip of tape, flecked here and there with blue paint and a bit of paper.
Royce waved a hand. “Take photos of the prints and the tape, but don’t worry about it. We aren’t responsible for Allen’s poor packaging.” He turned his gaze to the impasto, but Cosmo sensed all of the director’s attention was on him.
Cosmo peeled away another sheet of bubble wrap. “Is there a problem? Have I made a mistake?”
“Mistake? Not at all. I wanted to see how you were feeling after all that champagne last night.” He cocked his head, now in perfect symmetry with his crooked tie. “Do you want to break for lunch at the pub across the street? Maybe a Bloody Mary will help the hangover. My treat.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you.” Cosmo tugged on one dangle earring; the hard points of the geometric charms dug into his fingers.
Midday on-the-clock cocktails didn’t seem like the best idea, even if it was sanctioned by the boss.
“But I don’t have a hangover. And I really don’t drink that often. Not that much anyway. But…”
“Your boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Although he couldn’t blame anyone for not knowing which one it was at any given time.
“I heard part of the argument.”
Cosmo cringed. He couldn’t remember the exact words he and Zedd had hurled at each other, but it had still felt like a script Cosmo was doomed to repeatedly act out in some sort of tragic play, his punishment for being shitty in a past life. Well, no more.
He went back to unwrapping the impastos.
“I’m putting him behind me.” Which was another reason he didn’t want to sit in a noisy pub with the director.
He needed to get back to funeral planning.
“Thanks for thinking of me, but I had a huge breakfast. I want to get all of these paintings opened and mounted before the end of the day.”
“You know, you don’t need to work so hard to impress me.” Royce winked. “If you change your mind, do let me know.”
Cosmo nodded, then set the unwrapped paintings on a cart. Royce’s loafers clacked against the tile as he headed back into the gallery.
What to do about that giant stuffed alligator from the theme park? He could give it to Zedd… Or maybe he should stab it repeatedly until the stuffing hemorrhaged out. Then give it back.
And there were Zedd’s shirts, his toothbrush, a pair of shoes. Trash, all of it.
After unwrapping the rest of the paintings, he pushed them on the cart toward the west wing of the gallery. A wheel squeaked as he passed Isa?k’s blown glass raven skulls, mixed media neoplasticism pieces that took up entire walls, and surrealistic acrylics in eye-watering color combinations.
He stopped at a blank spot of wall and measured the first painting, then divided the number in half and added one hundred and fifty centimeters. He marked it down, then measured the painting’s drop.
The gallery seemed to be empty – at least in this wing – which was welcome at the moment because he had so much on his mind.
Despite only working here for a little over a week, patrons had stopped to chat him up on multiple occasions.
Aside from yawn-inducing lines about the art being nothing in comparison to his own beauty, what he heard most often was What’s your favorite kind of art?
It was such a broad question. Did they mean his favorite medium? Favorite style? Or did they actually mean art form as in fine art, cinema, architecture, literature, or music?
It really didn’t matter, because he had the same answer for all of them: weird.
Déjà had been right – there was nothing beautiful or impressive in the construction of Prelude To a Broken Arm.
It was a snow shovel hanging from the ceiling.
But the concept was the point of Dadaism.
It was amusing and absurd, and people remembered it.
Cosmo wanted the unusual, the memorable.
He was unusual and memorable. But like Duchamp’s shovel, people were often only fascinated by him on a superficial level. He drew attention, but only enough for people to want him as an interesting party guest or to fuck him a couple of times until they grew bored and moved on to someone else.
He wasn’t anyone’s true love.
He was a goddamn snow shovel.
But no one was going to say that at his funeral, he’d make certain of it. They were going to talk about how wonderful he was. God, hopefully people cried. That would be fantastic.
Swiping curls from his eyes, he mounted a painting and checked it with the spirit level. The bubble bobbed in the green liquid, then settled in the middle. Royce needed one for his tie.
Footsteps neared, and Cosmo turned. A wiry white guy in sunglasses and motorcycle boots rounded the corner. Cosmo’s chest clenched, mouth growing dry as he stared at Zedd. He squeezed the level, trying to decide if it would work better as a blunt weapon or a piercing one.
Striding for Zedd, he jabbed a finger at the exit sign. “Get the hell out.”
A single red rose dangled from Zedd’s hand. Sinus-clearing cologne wafted around him. He pushed up his sunglasses. “I am so sorry.”
“Get out. I’m working.”
“Please. It wasn’t my fault. I need another chance.”
“I’m not having this conversation again. We’re through.”
“I’m completely committed to you. Look.” Zedd pulled off his leather jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a band of plastic cling film. Beneath it, in weeping tattoo ink, was COSMO.
Unbelievable. “You put as much thought into your tattoos as you do your fidelity.” He turned back to the cart and tried to pick up a nail with shaking fingers. “Please do me a favor and spontaneously combust.”
Holding out the rose, Zedd’s voice cracked as he said, “I love you. I love you more than anything. More than–”
Cosmo snatched the rose, bit off its head, and chewed viciously. Petals flew from his mouth. “Get. Out.”
Zedd gaped. His jaw clamped shut, nostrils flared. “You’ll come around. You always do.” He turned away and slammed into Royce.
The director gripped him by the elbows and practically hurled him down the hall. “Come back – ever – and I’ll call the police.”
Tears stung Cosmo’s eyes, his mouth full of rose petals. He pulled a wet breath through his nose. Should have worn the waterproof mascara.
Royce returned, straightening the lapels of his suit jacket. He stared at Cosmo, lips a tight line, then plucked out his pocket square and offered it. “I think you could use that Bloody Mary now.”
Cosmo swallowed petals and dabbed at his eyes. He probably could. But all he really wanted to do was finish his work and go home. And if he accepted the drink offer, he ran the risk of crying on Royce or boring him to death with his woes.
His phone vibrated, and he opened it. A text from Déjà scrolled across:
Royce waited ahead, hands clasped behind his back. Green light from the exit sign settled into the creases of his face.
“I need a moment to compose myself,” Cosmo said. He headed for the restroom and replied to Déjà:
As he dialed her number, he stopped in front of a mirror in the restroom and dabbed his smeared mascara with the edge of a paper towel.
She answered immediately. “What happened?”
“The same typical bullshit. It’s not worth getting into; he’s already left. I’m going to flip a coin and either work straight through my break so I can get out of here early or go have a slightly unprofessional cocktail with the director while on the clock.”
“Um, what? Isn’t he like sixty? Ew, ew. You are vulnerable and hurting, and I will not watch you go down in flames like this. Sleeping with your boss who is almost forty years older than you is nasty and not a solution to your problems!”
He scoffed. And she thought he was the dramatic one. “I have no intention of doing that. I don’t know where you got that idea from.”
“He flirted with you at the party last night. He wouldn’t stop talking about your sculptures, and he kept calling you stunning and unique.”
Cosmo had no recollection of that, but it didn’t matter. “Those aren’t flirts, darling. They’re facts.”
“Pompous ass.”
“I get comments like that all the time. Even from you.” He lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder at the stalls, but they were empty.
“And what does it matter if they are flirts? They only mean something if I want them to, and I don’t.
Especially not now. If I can’t have the version of Zedd that I keep convincing myself is real, then it’s no one. ”
The disgusted noise coming through the speaker was so loud that Cosmo pulled the phone away from his ear.
“Excuse me, but Zedd should not be the litmus test for a loving, happy relationship. Not even your version of him that doesn’t exist. He’s average.
Average. Nothing about you is average, and you deserve someone on your level. ”
Cinereous Zedd had seemed anything but average in the beginning.
As the lead singer of Snake Milk, they’d met after an energetic performance in which Zedd had vaporized his eyebrows by getting too close to the pyrotechnics.
Conversation had been hard because Cosmo had to shout into his ringing ears, but it hadn’t mattered much when experimental punk rock and the intensity of their physical chemistry filled up the deficit.
But music and sex weren’t enough, even if you fell in love.
Cosmo needed conversations at one am while he and his love stared out at the glittering city.
He needed someone to try his baking and tell him if there was too much icing.
Someone to read to him and stroke his hair as they lay in bed on a Sunday morning.
Déjà’s words were lost to the sound of his heartache.
It sounded a lot like Zedd’s music, and Cosmo didn’t want to hear it.
This was not the time to dream of things that couldn’t be.
He had a funeral to plan. And maybe when he got home, he’d put on Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret and play “Tainted Love” as loud as possible over and over until the stylus on the turntable wore out.
Especially if his neighbor was on the phone – which he always seemed to be.
He wasn’t sure whether it was the guy in number twenty or number twenty-two, but godawful “on hold” music was always penetrating the walls.
The poor man must have a lot of issues that required calling customer service.
Cosmo tossed his paper towel in the garbage and leaned against the sink. “I don’t want to talk about Zedd anymore. We’re going to throw a party, remember?”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Oh, it will be. It’s going to be downright spectral.”