Page 9 of Omega Artist
Brazenly, my otherwise reserved sister proceeds to fill me in on Tig, who made an impression when she first encountered him.
“Tig?” I blurt. “What kind of a name isthat? And a tattoo artist on top of that!”
“That’s not the point!” I hear a hint of exasperation in her voice before her breeding takes over and her tone changes. And there was an indelible reason for it: the secret tattoo that she got about three years ago. A bird. A cage. An escape. I offer a small smile, pretending to care for what she calls art. “Oh, please, Aliénor. I know you hate tattoos. You’re exactly like Father at times. It’s both cute and aggravating… I’m not interested in your approval. You asked, so hear me out.”
“Okay,” I grumble, and she resumes her story.
She’d been meaning to get a tat after her engagement fell apart and considered the parlor after reading glowing reviews. “Back then, I drooled over him.” Now, I suspect that her choice wasn’t solely based on reviews. “Once at the parlor, I noticed one minor detail that undoubtedly stopped him from flirting back: his wedding band… He got me all flustered because he was hot and—”
I gesture for her to stop. “If you’re about to tell me that he was hung, I’ll call you out on TMI!” I tease her.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m perfectly aware that you’re a prude!” she says, dropping next to me on the sofa. “I was about to say that, on top of his looks, there was something that appealed to me; I still can’t quite pinpoint what.”
“Right,” I comment, unconvinced.
“You can imagine how thrilled I was to come across his profile on a dating app.” I nod, proud of myself for keeping my mouth shut at the word “dating.” “Anyway, we got to talking. Long story short, the wedding band’s gone, and he was more than ready to scratch my itch this time around… under one condition: no round two.” She bats her eyelashes for effect. “So worth it! The man’s body is a work of art, and God, was he amazing in the sack!” Her face turns fifty shades of red. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my sister get this emotional over a guy. “And he was huuung!” She giggles at her own words.
I shove her so that she topples sideways. Once our laughter subsides, she continues her tale. All in all, her story’s sad. First time was dinner and a quick fuck in his parlor, upon her request.
Once she’s herself again, she carries on. “But rules are meant to be broken!” She was flattered when he asked for more. They cut to the chase and fucked in a hotel the very next day. “He was adamant about keeping it casual, no possible commitment. We agreed that we were only after a good time... We’d always end up in bed.”
I sigh, lost inside my head. Her explanation echoes my ownlove life—again, such a hypocritical word. They continued to meet up, but he kept his distance, which drew her to him even more. I guess the mysterious, distant vibe intrigued her… that and the sex I’m sure.
“He said he was commitment-phobic, but there was definitely something between us. He was guarded but got under my skin so fast! He was really adamant about no repeats, but he kept texting. He was changing, one step at a time…”Right, sis. She hesitates, then adds, “Iwas going to make him open up and change.”
“Of course.” Why bother entertaining this absurd notion? I don’t even know the guy, and I’m well aware that people—regardless of gender—don’t change.
She lets out a pained sigh. “I stupidly hoped that it would lead to something real. Instead, he basically ghosted me. I texted him repeatedly until he finally called and admitted he didn’t want to see me anymore… He said,” she air quotes, “‘It’s not you, it’s me…’”
So lame!
“Then apologized for not sticking to his rule and hung up before I had a chance to reply. So I did something crazy.” Once again, her eyes are downcast, her face flushed. “I stalked him! I had to figure out what went wrong.” She worries the corner of her lip with her teeth. “About a week after he dumped me, I trailed him to a bar one night. From where I was standing, I overheard him joking with a few other guys about his collection. I could see him staring at them blankly, and one of his friends insisted that he share the number of women he banged over the last year… So, I didn’t waste time and rushed for the door...” She swallows loudly. “It makes me sick to my stomach that our friends judge you harshly since you’re a girl while his friends admire his behavior.”
I’ve heard male friends boast about their sexual exploits before, about how many girls they’ve slept with, about how gullible some of them were. Then, their friends chortled, applauded the men, and belittled the girls. I can’t tolerate it.
Incapable of responding, I hug her instead, containing the rage that threatens to overwhelm me. As much as her story upsets me, my flood of emotions is due to her last words; they awakened something in me that’s been bottled up for too long. She voiced my struggle. What triggered my need to start my blog. Because I’m a woman, I’m shamed; because Tig’s a guy, he’s praised. Same behavior, different outcome. Discrimination bothers me.
I suck it up and let her finish her confession.
“Part of me didn’t want to believe it. I was still hanging on to what we had. I had to see it with my own eyes, you know?” At this point, she’s mumbling. “Turns out he didn’t go out with the same woman twice. Maybe he used me… Yeah, he probably did.”
“You deserve better!” As selfish as it might be, the cold chill that runs down my spine is related to the fact that I can’t get over her words, rather than what this guy did to her. Same behavior, different outcome. Unfairness infuriates me.
“I’m so humiliated, Aliénor. I mean, he never promised anything, but we were good together. Why would he keep seeing me if I was just another random cheap fuck? Why am I always attracted to guys who aren’t invested? Why is it okay for guys to act like this and high five their friends at the clueless girl’s expense?”
Her words are haunting me now. They mean everything to me. Same behavior, different outcome. Inequity revolts me. I want to scream. I want to set an example. I want to show the world how wrong this all is.
“Shhh… shhh…” I comfort my sister to the sound of Alanis Morissette’s voice.
It takes another hour, a good number of tears, and many tissues for her to calm down. Exhaustion and remnants of jetlag win, and she opts for a well-deserved nap.
Before she steps out, she kisses my cheek and leaves me thoughtful, frustrated, and enraged.
I’m a wrecking ball and pace the room for a few minutes, hands threaded through my blonde hair as I try to compose myself. I fail miserably until I sit at my desk and open my laptop to respond to my followers on Instagram and Facebook. Next thing I know, I’m writing a long blog post that mirrors my sister’s recent online experience, requesting feedback.
Engrossed in my writing, I’m startled when the door opens abruptly. My sister quietly steps in and closes the door, resting her back against it.
With one hand on the doorknob, a smile spreads across her well-rested face, and she simply says, “Thanks for listening to my whining earlier… I should have talked to you sooner. Things seem much clearer now, thanks to you. I guess that being away from New York, being back here, and being with you helped me figure things out.” She sighs and looks at her feet, then back at me. “I obsessed over this guy, and it just hit me that my initial attraction to him, or the likes of him, was because he’s off-limits. I should probably focus on finding someone that’s right for me instead of rebelling to piss Father off. I’m old enough to stop my mindless provocations. Same goes for my studies, if you ask me… Running away from my life here for more diplomas isn’t the answer to my problems.” Wow, sounds like either our discussion or her nap resulted in an epiphany! “And to be totally honest, finding him online and seducing him like a personal challenge. I couldn’t have him the first time, and I would have done anything to land him if given the chance. It was a stupid infatuation, really. Thanks, sis!”
