Page 39 of Monarch
So I get up, go to the toilet, which I should probably clean at some point, empty my bladder, and then wash my hands and face. The mirror above the sink is cracked – that’s how I found it on the street – but my reflection still reveals just how tired I am. Tired, but with a lift in my lips that I can’t deny. That small smile grows as I walk over to the makeshift kitchen that I installed along with the artists I used to share this space with, and I rummage around for whatever sustenance I can find. After eating half a packet of out-of-date crackers, I fill a probably-not-very-clean pint glass with water, down it, and then refill it and drink that too.
Having taken care of all my basic needs, my eyes land on my work in progress, and already, I itch to get back to it. I resist and pull my phone out of my back pocket. I’m not surprised to find the batteryhas died. That’s a common occurrence for me, even when I’m not deep in the zone creating. I walk to the bed, plug it into the charger there, and leave it on top of the bed. It’s as I’m heading back to my painting that I hear the door rattling. Someone is trying to get in.
I pause and wait, curious to see if they’ll announce themselves before I assume this is an attempted robbery. There’s no knocking, and no voice, and still more clanking of the chain I used to secure the door on the inside. Whoever it is, they’re persistent.
Staying completely still and waiting for something like panic to rise in me, I’m not surprised when it doesn’t spike in me. Maybe I’m too tired for such a big reaction, or maybe I feel confident enough in the thick metal chain that’s securing a door that arguably could be kicked in with just a few forceful strikes, but I’m still more curious than concerned.
And then I hear a voice.
“Lex! I know you’re in there!”
Mari. It’sMari.
Now panic wastes no time, raising my temperature before bringing it back down to an icy chill. My neck elongates, and my ears prick up, wanting to hear that voice again despite myself. My hands clench into fists, and I force myself to release them and shake my fingers out.
“Lex! Let me in!”
My smile returns, but it’s a different beast from the calm, contented tilt of my lips I had earlier. Now it’s a smirk. A grin. A little too close to a sneer.
With the door still rattling as Mari – always so persistent, even up against locked doors – continues to try to get in, I walk over and unlock the padlock, trying to keep my breath slow and measured. When I slide the door open, it’s still a small shock to see Mari standing there.
Even though I heard their voice, even though I know they’re in Amsterdam and have somehow started to orbit my world like a rogue asteroid, it’s still a shock to actually see them. To share space with them.
“Missing me already?” I cross my arms and lean against the door, which is open just enough to allow them entrance but not exactly invite it.
“We need to talk,” they say tightly, and then they push right past me, knocking me slightly off balance.
“Come on in,” I say, full of sarcasm. I turn to see Mari standing in the middle of my studio. I watch as they do a slow twirl, looking all around them. I wait for their eyes to settle on something, anything, so I can try to understand what they make of this, what is close to a compilation of my life’s work, but they don’t linger on anything particular. That is, not until their eyes return to my face. They pin me in place, ice blue and sharper than I’ve ever seen them.
“I’m here to tell you to stay away from Roos,” they say, pulling their shoulders back and punctuating the statement with a perfect little pout.
“Oh, is that right?” I force myself to move, hoping that helps to cover up how my face itches to crease into a flinch. So, they’ve seen Roos again, and clearly, they’ve talked. I move to my work in progress, checking that Mari can’t see it. It’s interesting that the pull to start work on it again has faded away into the distance, but I pick up my brush regardless.
“Roos is too nice, too kind to say it to you herself, so I’m doing it for her.”
“How noble,” I snort without looking up, even though I can feel their chilling glare still on me.
“You broke her heart,” Mari spits out, each word like a bullet in my chest. “Twice.”
I flinch regardless, hoping my features are hidden enough that it’s not noticeable to them.
“So you’ve been talking.” I shrug as I pick up my paintbrush. “Two nights of sex and talking… I guess that means youreallyknow Roos, and sure, you knowexactlywhat’s right for her.”
I hear Mari’s feet shuffle across the dusty floor as they get closer to me. Still, I don’t look up, just dip my brush in and out of paint with absolutely no purpose. “I know what it’s like to have your heart broken by you, so yes, you could say I do know her pretty well, and I know that forgetting you is the only way to move forward.”
If their previous statement was gunfire, that feels like a hand grenade thrown into my chest cavity. Even so, I keep my eyes down, and I find it easier than I expect to reply. “Just like you’ve forgotten all about me?”
The question seems to grow in the silence that follows, so much so, I brave a look at Mari. They’re standing still, stunned, save for a blue-flamed fire of rage in their eyes.
“You don’t know anything about me,” they say slowly.
It’s the perfect invitation. I put the brush down and stand once more. I notice their chest rising and falling under their jacket, and the longest, most colourful crochet scarf I’ve ever seen is wrapped around their neck more times than I can count.
“You think that’s true?” I ask as I step closer. I catch the faintest hint of their jasmine and eucalyptus smell. Always so exotic, always so different from everyone else in that smalltown we grew up in. “You think I know nothing about you. About how you think you’re a completely different person from the nineteen-year-old you used to be? Even though your life is practically unchanged since then. You still live in the same town, don’t you? You work with your mum like you always said you would, don’t you? And I bet Kay’s Tattoo Studio is your whole world. Your social life. Maybe a lover or two. But it's your past, your present, and your future. Isn’t it?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” they repeat, but it’s a rushed, frustrated statement.
“I know that you think Roos is something special, which she is, but you’re wrong if you think she’s onlyyourspecial thing,” I say it as evenly as I can.
