Chapter 2
All winter we flit in and out of the Inn, staying at a base level of buzzed so we don’t feel the cold slap our legs through
the runs in our tights, the holes in our jeans.
The pact brings us even closer together. We get all the benefits of lifelong commitment without any of the daily confinement.
We never bring anyone back to the Inn with us, though. It’s one of the only ground rules we have, along with always restocking
the freezer drawer with a new carton of vegan ice cream before you finish the prior one. We try to be vegan for environmental
reasons, but we’re too poor to be fully vegan, so sometimes dairy ice cream finds its way in. And once it’s there, we’re not
going to throw it out. That’s even worse for the earth, so we’re morally compelled to finish it.
Staying over at our lovers’ places rather than bringing them home helps us keep the power since we can be the ones to escape
before dawn. Plus, there’s the bunk bed situation and paper-thin walls to deal with. The Inn isn’t exactly renowned for its
privacy, but it’s the only square footage in the world that we actually own, or at least lease. That’s why we’re so adamant
about not letting outsiders disrupt the energy. And the kind of people we go for would definitely disrupt it. That’s why they
catch our attention.
I tend to like other theatrical types because they’re not confined by a preconceived sense of self.
They’re down, or up, to play with neon-light personalities, knowing they can drop them or draw new ones whenever they want.
I do it too, parading sides of myself I’ve never unveiled before or making up new sides altogether, conjuring wings that I wear to fly high, high, higher into the night before the sun burns off the fragile magic of the moon.
I’m addicted to the rush, but the thrill is never as sharp, the sensations never as exquisite, the second time around. Even
if my brain doesn’t remember, my body does, and I can always guess at least half of what’s about to happen, so I let my flings
fizzle into nothing before they try to tell me we had something.
I collect lovers like travelers collect postcards, looking back fondly on the quaint, two-dimensional images that never have
to be ruined by the reality of tourists and sewage and scaffolding.
The Redstockings don’t all share my allergy to monogamy. They’ll usually pair up with someone for a little stretch of time
before the itch to quit them kicks in. My way is kinder when you think about it. At least I never give anyone the impression
that I might commit.
For a few weeks now, Hal’s been seeing this rich college girl from the Manhattan debutante circle. Hal is attracted to a certain
lifestyle, says it can’t be helped; it’s just the natural consequence of having grown up on a bankrupt blueberry farm. She
can spin that story for all it’s worth. It got old a while ago, but she just keeps embellishing it.
One night in February, or maybe it’s March, Hal invites us to Williamsburg for the opening of a modern art gallery that this girl’s parents own.
Usually we’d say no because we’re anti-Williamsburg.
It’s a grotesquely bougie neighborhood that brands itself as bohemian.
The tidy streets are stuffed with formulaic trust-fund artists who aren’t actually artists at all because true art comes only from necessity, from lacking, from having no other choice than to take the pain inside you and eject it in a new shape.
A decade or two ago, Williamsburg really was a wonderful cluster of creatives, but enter gentrification and all the actual
artists got priced out to deeper parts of Brooklyn. Bushwick, for instance, which is why we’ve found our people here.
We agree to venture into Williamsburg tonight, though, because of the free drinks and munchies promised. And we’re also kind
of curious to catch a look at Hal’s girl. It’s rare that any of our lovers last long enough for an introduction, so it’s hard
to pass by the opportunity to scope.
The gallery is exactly what you’d expect—a yawningly square space rimmed with abstract paintings so bad that people start
believing they’re good just because the alternative is too obvious. The con artist is easy to spot. He’s surrounded by a sheeny
orb of admirers, each fawning over his work because the person next to them is fawning over it and New York isn’t a place
where you want to be left out of a trend.
A particular kind of disgust fills me as I watch. No doubt this silver-spoon swindler has booked a lavish vacation to Barbados
with the profits. Or maybe he’s already too wealthy, so he’ll donate the money to charity just so everyone will coo over what
a good person he is. I’m not jealous; I just don’t like frauds.
Even if my parents knew anyone in show biz, which they don’t, I wouldn’t let them catapult me to stardom. It would taint it
for me. Success is respectable only if you have to suffer for it, sweat for it, spit in the face of the critics who rejected
you time and time again, and carve your own path with the machete you stole when they were sleeping the day away in their
Hamptons mansion.
I don’t warm up to Hal’s girl. She’s all bubbles and chic. It seems like she’s using Hal to check the box of the sexually experimental college experience, though to be fair, Hal’s using her for the rich-people perks, so I guess you can call it even.
The two of them pair off, and Tara and Jenni go to the bathroom for a coke break. I hang back, not in the mood for it tonight,
not in the mood for anything I’ve done before.
I scan the crowd for anyone interesting to mingle with. No one stands out. Half the people are in suits, clearly thinking
themselves very hipster for having taken an Uber out of Manhattan all the way into Brooklyn. It’s all so predictable that I could rock myself to sleep right here, but drinking sounds better.
It’s an open bar. I order two cocktails. One with rum and the other with vodka because I don’t like even pairs. Carrying one
in each hand, I pace the perimeter of the gallery, tilting my head and trying to imagine myself swimming in the artwork. None
of the pieces give me that feeling of lava lapping up against my naked body, which is how I verify they’re no good, not that
I didn’t know that before.
This old guy starts following me from painting to painting. It’s like he thinks I don’t notice him stalking me, so I round
on him and ask what his deal is.
He eats me alive with his eyes, from my tits to my toes and back up again. I wish I could fold my arms to cover my chest,
but I’m double-fisting the drinks, and why would I drop a drink for a man?
“I’ve been observing you as I soak in the art,” he says. “You’re a beautiful sight.”
I’m wearing these great corduroy overalls of Tara’s. We share a closet, which means we share a wardrobe, and it’s mostly full
of costume fragments that Tara takes home from her different shows. My hair is streaked with maroon, and I’ve got some gold
flash tats crawling up my neck. I don’t do real tats because of the commitment. Turquoise contacts enhance my dull gray eyes.
I look like a fucking vision, and I don’t need this pig to validate that.
“I’m not an object,” I tell him.
The pig chuckles to himself, like he finds my rebellious spirit endearing. Like I’m doing it to flirt or something.
I keep moving along but he doesn’t back off. He asks me which of the paintings I’d buy if money weren’t a constraint. I tell
him I can already afford them but wouldn’t waste a penny on this junk. That doesn’t shut him up. He keeps hovering, getting
closer.
“There you are,” a voice says. It’s different from the one I was expecting. Softer, like a metal that accidentally melted
and now can’t go back.
I look up and there’s this other guy standing there, in between the stalker and me. My first thought is that I’ve met this
guy before, but then I realize that’s just because he has that formulaic look, like he was created in some human genome lab
with a perfectly controlled environment. He’s trim but not skinny, not short but not tall. His clean-shaven face is an unnervingly
symmetrical oval, anchored by solid brown eyes and a right-triangle nose with a bridge as thin as a pencil. His olive skin
is clear of acne scars and sunspots and any other evidence of interesting stories.
I suppose he’s objectively attractive, but subjectively he’s not my taste at all. Far too bland. His neck seems choked by
his collar and tie, and that’s a turnoff if I’ve ever seen one. He’s probably about my age but has an older air about him.
Maybe it’s the deep groove of his part line, like his hair has been raked by the comb so many mornings in a row that it’s
lost the spirit to dissent, or maybe it never had any free will in the first place.
I’m not that intrigued by Mr. Suit—or Mr. Suitor, more accurately, since he’s clearly interested in me—but I am a little intrigued.
There’s a stirring of the unexpected that such a follow-the-rules kind of person would have gone out of his way to develop
a scheme to get this pig off my tail. I want to see if the plot might take another twist, so I go along with it.
“Darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” I say, all drama and delight, like I’m back in my audition days. I shove the rum drink into my faux partner’s hand and loop my free arm through his.
The old guy frowns. He asks if we’re together, and Mr. Suitor says that together is an understatement; we’re getting married
next month. His voice is way too even-keeled, but it’s perfect for this ruse since it rings of reliability.
“I don’t wear my ring in public,” I explain, “because there’s too big of a risk of it getting stolen, what with the size of
that rock and all.”
The pig snorts disapprovingly, then recovers enough to wish us his sincerest congratulations and skirts away, scouting his
next prey.
Mr. Suitor shakes his head. “Why do men think they can act like that?” he asks.