Page 10 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
I toss one look at her from over the computer screen. “You say it as if it is so difficult for you to find a man to dance with you.”
“...It’s not.” Alessia complies, but she crosses her arms over her chest. “But you shouldn’t stop yourself from going out just because you don’t want to see Lorenzo.”
“I never said it was because of that. I said I was busy.”
“I know he is the reason.”
Heartbreak aims to mark like a tattoo does, and while I’m trying not to let it affect me as such, color has already tainted the skin. I lick my lips, weighing the options of having a nice, fun night out. But then, the images of what could happen come back. I’m not ready to look him in the eyes just yet, because I know I would want to talk about it. Hear why he did it, even if it was an excuse. Cry and ball my fists against his chest just to make him ache quite like I’m doing now.
“Just go. Send me pics and text me throughout the night.” I tell her, shrugging her idea off and returning to my work. Alessia moves over to my side, exhaling as she presses her lips to the crown of my head, speaking against my dark hair.
“I hope you know that this is not going to end you.”
With those words, she leaves, swinging her hips in the air. As Alessia walks away, the world falls into a heavy silence that envelops me. It's a quiet that feels almost alive, echoing with the absence of her presence, and drawing me deeper into my thoughts. What I have hated the most is that my mind becomes restless once the white noise comes around, so I lurk through my playlist, hitting shuffle and waiting for the first song to pop up.
Niall Horan and Julia Michael’s ‘What A Time’ starts playing.
Oh, fuck me.
I continue working, this night losing itself to the rhythm of my fingers moving against the keyboard. However, when two twenty-seven in the morning strikes the clock and I have, once again, failed to do my job properly, the voting system still fucked up—just a bit less bugged than earlier, mind me—, I decide the time for me to look for the big guns is set. Alessia always keeps a bottle of wine in one of her fancy bamboo shelves, and I’m sure she won’t miss it if I just take a sip.
I turn on Celia Cruz instead, swinging my hips to the side as I shimmy away from my boots and take my white blouse out from my light blue jeans. The music is loud against my eardrums when I toss my head back and fill my mouth with sweetened, grape-based wine. Alessia wasn’t wrong; dancing is good for heartbreak.
I sing at the top of my lungs, closing my eyes and using the end of the bottle as my microphone. When I get tired, just a little tipsy from the alcohol while I fill my mouth for the umpteenth time, I toss myself in front of the computer I was working on, only to remember what I still have saved in my purse.
I look for cut-out shapes and lettering, printing the letters that I know spell the name of that stranger that lit up my night just with a few misspelled words. I remember the curve of his pink mouth, that thick bottom lip, and that sharpness of his jaw. His height and broad shoulders. The paralyzing essence that comes from the wrinkles around his brown eyes when he smiles.
So, I write to another man. Just because I can.
Because Iwant to.
A few droplets of wine spill into the paper as I pick up my pen and think hard about what I’m going to write. I could just write in English, unravel the mystery that I know how to speak the language. Assuming that he knows English, of course. What if he’s not fluent in that, either?
I jot down my mother's language.
Dear Nathan,
I’m a little drunk, so you might notice a few stains from the wine I’m having. Do you like wine? I’m not sure you’re the kind who sips on wine. I’m normally used to men being too stupid and prideful to have drinks like these. Cuban men normally prefer beer, Cuba Libre, Presidente...I’m not a fan of either.
So, to answer a few questions from what I can remember from the first letter. I don't know if there is an accent in 'ja-ja', but when you say it out loud, it sounds like such. I know that when we’re in elementary school, they teach us all these rules about using accent marks (Maybe, you can check out those?), but yes, my name has one in the ‘O’. Let’s use LOL in this case.
That night sucked. I’ll be honest with you because you decided were sincere to me, even when you could have gone home long before that moment you found me. I got my heart broken by someone I loved dearly. Love, the verb should be in present because I’m not sure I’m really over it...
Fuck, shouldn’t I be saying I’m over it? Like manifesting or such. Besides, you’re good-looking yourself...so...
I wrote this with a pen. Uh-oh, too late to regret saying that now.
So, it’s late at night and my friend asked me to go out drinking with her at another friend’s music event. He wants to be a mambo singer and I’m so proud of him, but going means seeing the man I talked to you about before. Do you have any advice on how to go back to how you used to be before you got your heart broken? I feel miserable, but I’m also unsure if I’m quite ready to give the glow-up everyone expects at this point from me.
Either way, I was wondering where you were from. You don’t look like you are from Havana. I would’ve known you if that was the case. What brought you to this side of the world? Because sometimes, I just want to run away from here.
Writing too much now, am I? Another thing, I totally forgot...but I loved your drawing. It made me feel pretty in the night I felt my lowest, so here’s a reply for that.
At last, I try to make an image out of what I remember from him. Bright, wide teeth; thick eyebrows, lines around precious, almond-shaped eyes. The whisk of his hair and the shape of his jaw. It’s a little distorted, considering I’m drunk, but I’m proud of the final product as I take another gulp of wine.
Lost in the swirl of my intoxication, I become convinced that I can conquer the world. I swear to myself that tomorrow will be the day I finally send this letter. As I sink into the familiar embrace of the couch in our office, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. In a careless moment, I inadvertently spill the remnants of my drink, the cold liquid splattering across my blouse, a striking contrast against the fabric.
Shit, this is white, it’ll be hell to take it out—
