Page 40 of Omega Artist
“Depends on where you are. Are you still in the country, or did you fly away in some handsome prince’s private jet?” Her breathing changes, and it dawns on me that she’s on a cigarette break despite multiple claims that she was going to quit her nasty habit. The last time was a few months ago when I dropped the C-bomb, not that my cancer had anything to do with smoking, though.
Her question is so ludicrous that I can’t help but laugh, attracting the attention of some fellow patrons. I ignore them and pour some more coffee into my empty cup, then gulp the warm beverage. “Good one, but you know that private jets are bad for the environment, and if I—”
She cuts me off. “Don’t start, okay. I know you aren’t waiting for Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet and escort you to his shiny stainless-steel jet.” Although we’re on the phone, in my mind, I can see the corners of her eyes crinkle into a smile at my never-ending rant—that women dare to call feminism when it is, in truth, a matter of equity.
At the thought, Sunday’s conversation with Tig comes to my mind. As peeved as I was by his argument over paying the bill, the asshole had a point.
Tig: 1 – Aliénor: 0
I awkwardly try to cut a piece of the egg-sodden homemade bread with my fork—a gesture that Father would disapprove of—and opt to toy with her some more. “You know, I’m pretty sure that planes aren’t made of stainless steel.”
Atsknoise comes across the line. “Who cares, Aliénor?” She inhales deeply, taking a drag from her cigarette no doubt, and it takes all the restraint I have to keep my mouth shut. “Stop skirting my questions. I don’t have all day, and there’s no way you’re going to leave me hanging after I saved your ass with my dad.” She pauses. “Now, spill!” I guess being bossy runs in the family, and here I thought that it came from my dad’s side. She sighs. “Where are you anyway?”
It’s my turn to giggle because I anticipate the reaction that will follow my revelation. “In Brooklyn Heights.” I wolf down the remainder of my lukewarm toast.
And here it comes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she stutters in between chortles. A second later, she gets a hold of herself and uses her perfectly trained PR voice to ask, “Would you care to share how you got lost in the middle of nowhere?” And here I thought Brooklyn was a hip borough… silly me!
The phone no longer held against my ear, I stare at it for a moment, shocked that she can’t fathom the possibility of me staying at a hotel in Brooklyn. Once again, I quickly balance my options. I’m tempted to remind her that life exists outside of Central Park West, 5thAvenue, and Park Avenue; she’s not conceited, but she can come off as posh when she lets this side of her show. I play nice and opt for honesty; she’s on my side after all.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
I haven’t told my cousin abouthimyet… and start my story, with bits and pieces artfully missing. It doesn’t take long to register that my heart is ridiculously invested in my tale. Online guy from the U.S. Tattoo artist from Manhattan. Cool guy from Brooklyn Heights. Not a total lie. Not the total truth either. Not sure where I stand after we finally met. I had a good time with the despicable Tig de Luca. Soon after comes the plot twist. “I’m pretty sure that he’s super active online, if you know what I mean.”
“Let’s see…” She pauses, pretending to ponder what I said. “Between the sheets, right? Thanks to his potent presence online and offline.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself. Thoughtful, I finish my coffee and head towards the lobby. I clear my throat and resume my train of thought. “But yeah, I mean, we kind of hit it off online.” That’s not even a lie! “Despite my initial hesitation, a couple of months later, we were face-to-face… on Sunday evening.”
I’m feeling lazy after the wild night that I had, so I head for the elevator, press the button, and wait.
“Oh my God! French lovers aren’t enough anymore; you’re incorrigible!” I bet the people passing me overheard that. Oh, well! French lovers are as good as any, but so far, I haven’t found a man to conquer my heart, body, and soul. Oblivious to my inner debate, I hear her filling in the blanks of my modern-day fairytale. “He brought you back to his place, you slept together, and now you’re calling me to avoid the walk of shame!” Her voice is more playful than judgmental.
“Calm your tits, Greer!” I reply in a low voice as I change my mind and pace the lobby while getting this conversation back on track. I cup my hand between the phone and the side of my mouth to keep as quiet as I can. “Should I remind you thatyoucalled first and I called you back? Should I remind you that there’s no such thing as the walk of shame because I’ve always embraced my sex life and I’m not ashamed of it? Should I remind you that I hate tats, so it’ll be a while before anything happens?” My final question that was intended to be witty rings so true that I shiver. Seducing him means having sex with him and dumping him at some point, but I’ve only slept with guys that I was attracted to. Tig isn’t one of them, or is he? He could have been if it weren’t for the atrocities he’s inflicted on his otherwise decent body.
“You said that Tig was a tattoo artist, not that hehadtats,” she counters.
“Oh, come on! Those go together like David and Victoria Beckham.”
“Nice reference, Aliénor. Since when do you like soccer and old Brit pop?”
“It’s calledfootballin any civilized country.”
“Fuck you!”
“Ohhh… curse words!” We burst into laughter, instantly remembering the countless summers in Martha’s Vineyard where our parents would go berserk at that. “Anyway, he has ink on his hands and neck. It’s gruesome.”
“O-kay… So, remind me why you’re even remotely interested in a guy who you consider to be gross?”
Fuck, I spoke too fast. Focus. Focus. Focus.
Blowing out a long breath, I do exactly that. “I’m not that shallow. I can see beyond the ink.”
“You’re poetic in the morning, dear cousin!” She mimics me in a high-pitched voice. “I can see beyond the ink.”
“Right… Mock me all you want.” I swallow my pride. “What I meant is that I actually noticed his paintings, rather than his ink. They kind of have a dark, gothic aura to them.”
“Wow! Now I’m intrigued. What’s his IG handle? Maybe I know him!”
If I provide the correct answer, she might contact him. No way.
