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hey

Andrew took a deep drag from his cigarette as he watched the various people in the Botanical gardens of Park Slope passing by, some people holding red and orange cans, couples hand in hand, groups of teenagers, families with little children; all colors and all sorts, ambling, trotting and anxious to share their enjoyment.

He came here often, mainly because through people watching he came up with many of his ideas. And secondly, it was close to his house and was the best place to smoke as freely as he wished. Ingrid had thought he quit. Everywhere else he was given dirty looks, as if enjoying a cigarette was on par to drowning puppies and kittens. Ingrid loved the park as well but rarely came, due to severe pollen and grass allergies. Andrew wondered whether it made him evil to enjoy something his partner was denied.

He continued to daydream only half listening to Benjamin talk about the new bar/restaurant/gallery they had decided to open. While most museums and art galleries had restaurants , the idea was to place emphasis more on the latter rather than the former, a great place you could eat whilst viewing and appreciating, possibly buying, art work at the same time.

“So are you busy tomorrow night?” Ben asked, his voice breaking his stream of though.

“Not in particular. I have to do lunch with a friend and I have an appointment with my agent, she’s pushing me to get a book out. We can look over the layout of the restaurant tomorrow night though.”

“Speaking of books, completely random, but you know Phillip James?”

“Yeah, what about him?” Of course Andrew knew who Phillip James was. He had exhibited for his gallery in London twice. Phillip had been one of the biggest players in the art world, known as one of the youngest and most successful art agents, representing an exclusive list of international clientele. No doubt it had helped that his mother had been an extremely famous seventies artist and feminist icon while his father was a curator who owned several galleries throughout Europe. 

Andrew had looked up to Phillip as the big brother he had never had. Even though they weren’t friends, Andrew had never met anyone like him. Although he was only a few years older, his features were sharp, containing none of the softness youth contained. He gave the impression of great strength, both physical and mental. There was something about him that reminded Andrew of the Greek gods, as if the old heroic blood has survived down into a less noble age. In the middle of their first meeting, Phillip had abruptly told him that he found many photographers to be rather overrated, that the industry was overcrowded. Yet your photographs, he had said, are so vivid through your use of colors that they barely look like photos at all. You really should take up painting, Andrew. You have a gift.

If anyone else had said that to Andrew, he would have been annoyed but coming from Phillip, as successful as he was and whom Andrew perceived to be central to the cultural hub of things, it was the best compliment he had ever had. Although their relationship had never been close enough for Andrew to tell him so, Phillip James had been an inspiration. In his presence, the world was open and full of possibilities, ready to be conquered.

And yet he, the man who could have done anything, had taken his own life. The newspapers had almost been gleeful about his death. Like Mother, like Son. The charismatic prince of the art world bought low, as if his suicide was the only fitting ending to a life like his. Andrew had been at his funeral and was furious at the tabloid press, shocked that someone’s death could be offered up as entertainment and self-satisfied judgment. So what if his group had consisted of women? And so what if he was extravagant? He had made a lot of money at an age where he wanted to enjoy it, money that most people his age could only fantasize about. And if there had been rumors of wild parties and drugs, surely people realized that form of lifestyle was not unique in the art world, was actually very common.

“Well you know that  a posthumous book was published in his honor, yeah?”

“Yeah, I heard about that book.” All of Phillip’s private art work as well as some personal photos and diary entries had been published with his father’s permission. A lot of people thought it was disrespectful, invasion of privacy and all that. It reminded Andrew of the Kurt Cobain Journals he had bought in 2002, something a lifelong Nirvana fan such as himself would have dreamed to own. He had been thrilled with his purchase, up until he read the part where Kurt Cobain himself made clear he would never have wanted his diaries published, writing specifically: The most violating thing I’ve felt this year… the rape of my own personal thoughts. I feel compelled to say fuck you… fuck you to those who have absolutely no regard for me as a person. You have raped me harder than you’ll ever know.  He had been filled with shame and had not been able to look at the book since. It was for those same reasons he not purchased Phillip’s book either.

“Really? I think it’s great it was shown; a lot of his stuff was really good. Kafka didn’t want of his work to be published after he died either. But back to the point. I was looking through the book and I found Dana. Your friend Dana.”

“What do you mean you found Dana?”

“That chick your friends with? Dana? There’s a painting of her in his book. She was one of his lovers, I’m assuming. Judging from the nature of the picture anyway.”

Andrew stiffened. “You mean it’s a nude? So what? Every artist paints nudes, it doesn’t mean anything.” How the hell had Dana known someone like Phillip?

“Yeah, but in this chapter is about his girlfriend history. You can’t see anything anyway, only her back. She looks good though. She isn’t the only nude chick in there; he painted all of his girlfriends like that apparently.”

“Says who?” Andrew challenged.

“Says his other girlfriends, why are you getting so heat up?”

“Nothing. Fuck. I’m trusting you here, Ben. I need you to swear you aren’t going to say anything.”

“I won’t” Benjamin was wide eyed in his earnest, throwing his hand in the air as if he was taking an oath on a courtroom stand. “Whatever it is, I swear I won’t tell.”

“Not even to your girlfriend. No disrespect but Jacquie has a big fucking mouth.”

“Literally and figuratively” Benjamin grinned in response. “Trust me when I say it does a lot of good alongside evil. Okay, I swear I will not tell another living soul.”

“I’ve kind of been, well not officially but, I have this thing going with…with Dana.”

Benjamin looked at him stunned, before breaking out into laughter and shaking his head. “Asshole” He said, punching Andrew on the arm. “You almost got me there.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Andrew snapped, suddenly irritated. “This isn’t a joke, I’m being serious.”

“Shit. Wow” Benjamin said. The humor abruptly fell away from his face. “Fuck, that’s intense. I didn’t take Dana as your type.”

“What do you mean by type?” Andrew asked, his voice dangerously low.

Benjamin, sensing the menace in his voice, began to backtrack. “I mean like, no offence, I just figured you to be a vanilla ice cream kind of guy.”

“Rafael said that shit to me months ago too” Andrew’s voice had become edgy with suppressed anger, “Do you guys think I’m a fucking racist cause I’m from Australia? Is that what it is?”

“No! I mean, you’ve never dated or even indicated you liked anyone outside the, uh, caucasian spectrum. People tend to date in a pattern, that’s all. And your pattern so far has been glamorous blondes who resemble old school actresses.” Benjamin gave him a look. “Come on man, let’s drop the PC act, this is me you’re talking to.”

“I know Dana isn’t what I normally go for” Andrew admitted grudgingly, caught out. “And she is different in every way, not just looks but personality and all but I can’t help it. I don’t know why I’m so drawn to her.”

“Oh, absolutely” Benjamin was now nodding earnestly, “I mean that girl is smoking hot. I’m not normally into black chicks either but I would fuck her in a heartbeat, given the chance.”

Andrew ignored the comment.

“So you’ve slept with her?”

“No, we’ve just… we’ve made out twice” Andrew could feel a flush rise in his face. He didn’t know why he felt so stupidly embarrassed. But admitting to making out made him feel like a horny, love struck teenager.

“Oh, that’s no big deal. Just forget it happened, I wouldn’t stress out over this” Benjamin gave him a reassuring pat on the back, “You’re such an honorable guy, you make the rest of us look shit.”

“No, you’re misunderstanding me. I want to take things further. I’m even thinking of splitting up with Ingrid.”

“Woah” Benjamin said, his eyes wide with alarm. “Let’s not get hasty here, think with your head for a second. After everything you’ve built with Ingrid, you’re going to throw this away for some fling? Don’t be stupid.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? I think about Dana all the time, like constantly” Andrew admitted. “I do tell myself I want to stay with Ingrid after all the shit we’ve been through but then most days all I can dream about is getting away.”

“So what? It’s lust. Lust goes away after a while. The same thing would happen with Dana and then the next girl and then the next girl. Is this Dana pushing you to leave Ingrid? Like is she withholding the goodies until you dump Ingrid? Because that’s the oldest trick in the-.”

“No, she isn’t” Andrew said. “Don’t turn her into some sort of evil witch that’s put a spell on me, okay? She’s offered a no strings attached deal, if you really want to know.”

“Ah, okay. Why didn’t you say so? That solves your problems right there, doesn’t it?” Benjamin said.  “By all means, sleep with her. Do what you have to do. Just don’t be so hasty, you need to think with your head, like this girl does. You’re assuming she wants a relationship, she obviously offered a no strings deal attached for her own reasons, not just yours.”

“How so?”

“Maybe she wants a guy she can have sex with a few times a week and nothing more. Maybe she doesn’t want a boyfriend. Have you ever thought of it like that?”

Andrew hadn’t. And the idea of it sort of hurt a little bit. Perhaps Benjamin was right and it was his status  that had made Dana seek him out. She had always been strangely independent, to the point where people thought of her as isolated. Maybe she didn’t want a boyfriend. You wanted what you couldn’t have and when you could have it, you didn’t want it anymore. That was human nature; he knew it wasn’t so unusual. He suddenly envisioned leaving Ingrid, turning up on Dana’s doorstep, only to be turned away. The idea of it sent slivers of ice down his spine. Unlike Dana, he had never been alone in his life – not the way she had. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept alone in a bed, he could not handle being on his own the way she was.

“Okay, say you’re right” Andrew conceded. “How about the fact having an affair makes me a massive dickhead?”

“So? This isn’t the first time you’ve had an affair, what about Ellen? You slept with her for years.”

Andrew cringed at the memory. “That was different. I was seeing other people in that time too. She was the married one, I was single.”

“Okay, then argument two” Benjamin replied. “If Ingrid did find out, I highly doubt it means she’d necessarily leave you. Don’t forget she was seeing Thomas while she was with you.”

And I think she still sometimes does. The familiar lurch in his stomach at the mention of Thomas again. For a second Andrew was tempted to tell Benjamin of his suspicions, the phone calls and the text messaging late at night when she thought he was asleep. The hours spent on the internet. But he decided not to. It would only look like he was making excuses to justify his own shitty conduct.

“If anything she’d probably be thrilled to balance out the bad behavior. She tells Jacquie all the time about how guilty she feels.”

“Let’s no go nuts with the wistful thinking here” Andrew muttered, unable to make eye contact.

“Trust me. She’s from a different world altogether, it just wouldn’t work. I know that shit seems cute in books and movies, but this is real life. You and Ingrid understand each other better than anyone I know, you both come from the same place. You’ve both had to grow up fast, you’re both perfect together” Benjamin now looked serious. “My advice, just go and sleep with her. It’s probably just unresolved sexual tension. You’ll probably feel so guilty it will never happen again and you can write it down as a one off.”

“Hmm” Andrew lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply. He suddenly remembered the feel of her against his that night, the way their bodies just fit. He had not even slept with her yet and he was already hooked. Whatever outcome, he knew Dana being pegged as a one off incident was highly unlikely.

Later after they said goodbye, Andrew walked over to the library, hoping he could find a copy of the book they had been discussing. After no luck, he scouted three to four book stores, finally being told from a sales assistant at Borders that there was a copy of it in another store located in Broadway. Would he like to order it in?

“No, that’s okay. I can go pick it up. Could you please tell them to hold it for me? I’ll go there right now” Andrew said, jotting down his name and number so that the sales girl could dictate it over the phone. What was half an hour in the scheme of things?

Once he was back home, with two bags of books on his person he made his way into the study. He could hear Ingrid in the kitchen, humming to herself, the smell of spaghetti sauce wafting through the house.

“Andrew, you back already?” Ingrid called out. She sounded cheerful. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief inwardly.

“Yeah, I just went and bought some books. I got you that new Phillip Roth novel, the one that came out last month.”

“The Plot Against America? Oh, thank you honey” Ingrid replied.

Andrew felt immensely pleased with himself then, the way he always did when Ingrid showed him affection or gratitude.

Sometimes he felt that coming home and dealing with Ingrid’s moods was like playing a game of Russian roulette. There were days she would be happy and energetic. She usually channelled her energy into domestic tasks such as cleaning and cooking, all the while talking of children, of going to college, becoming a writer, an actress, a doctor, a teacher - her energy and plans bubbling like an over flowing boiling pot of water. Other days she would be so dark, she spoke of death and failure, her eyes so hopelessly blank that to Andrew it felt as if he were speaking to a corpse already. Last night after the party, he had arrived home, buoyant, only to find her on the floor, clutching an evening gown and bawling as if her heart was broken. He couldn’t understand what was wrong and then as always felt guilty that he had gone out without her, had she wanted to come as well, was that the reason? Had she wanted him to stay at home instead? When he asked her, she pushed him away, a tearful rage erupting. You dumb fuck, she had screamed, you stupid Aussie red neck! You’re so fucking literal, aren’t you?

He had hated her in that moment but then felt ashamed. She was unwell, she was on medication. Medication that she kept skipping, much to his dismay. They made her feel bloated, they made her feel dead inside, she constantly had nightmares, and her mouth was always chalky and dry. Ingrid would begin to cry every time he confronted her.  So as of today they were trying St John’s Wart, a herbal remedy for depression. If worse came to worse and it didn’t work, Andrew would have to ask the doctors to intervene. But she seemed okay so far.

 “Andrew? Andrew? Come here to the kitchen, I want you to taste this” Ingrid called out.

“I’ll be there in a minute, let me shower first” Andrew replied loudly, sitting down at his desk, eagerly opening the Phillip James book and flipping through the pages. He had not looked at it in store, had felt for some reason that he should wait till he was in the privacy of his own home.

He found the section he was seeking for towards the end, the chapter scattered with lines of different famous poems as captions underneath. According to his father, the lines of poems had been written on the back of the portraits by Phillip himself.  Andrew found her instantly, his breath hitching in his throat at the sight of her. Benjamin had been right; there were other women in there, a few of them far more provocative in comparison to Dana, breasts bared, legs spread apart, wild hunger in their eyes. Others cupped their breasts in their hands, lay on their stomachs or folded their legs and arms in such a manner that modesty was still preserved. Yet they either gazed away slyly or gazed assertively to the camera, still managing to remain sexually suggestive. Dana was different, her back and arms the only visible feature, wind blowing her hair away from her face. The way Phillip had painted her… her gaze was direct but her face solemn, a sadness that seemed to stem from deference. Who had she given in to? The artist? Perhaps she had not wanted to be painted, had been strong-armed into it against her will. Certainly the Dana he knew would not be the type to pose nude for anybody.

He read the line of poetry under her picture, written by Pablo Neruda. And if the portrait had not officially confirmed the type of relationship Phillip and Dana had shared, the line he read certainly did.

Perhaps Benjamin was right; Dana did exist in a completely different world compared to his. How could he even consider throwing away what he had with Ingrid? Ingrid and he, despite their ups and downs, were two halves of a whole. They shared the same taste in everything, the same viewpoints, shared the same upbringing.

I remember you with my soul clenched, in that sadness of mine that you know.

That was it. That one line seemed to say it all. There was something deeper that connected the both of them. Phillip had obviously felt it. And he did too.

He realized then the inevitable choice of his actions as well. He was going to see her tomorrow, no matter what. Andrew looked at the young girl staring back at him as if they were co-conspirators, together resigned to the same fate.












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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.