Page 60 of Monarch
“Why haven’t you been seeing her? Outside of QISS, I mean?” They have pushed me to be honest, so I want to try and do the same.
They take their time to reply. So much so I think I start to think they’re just going to ignore my question, but finally, they say, “I wanted to focus on myself, too. Moving here. Starting the new job. It was intense.”
It doesn’t sound like the whole truth, but I also don’t think it’s a lie.
“And how is it going?”
Mari flicks their gaze up at me, checking I am actually interested. I am.
“I like it here. A lot. This is a fun studio to work in. I have a small but cosy flat. I’m making friends. I’m…happy.”
My heart swells, which it doesn’t do very much these days. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.”
The buzzing stops. One final wipe. “Please,” Mari says as they roll back a foot or two on their wheelie stool. “We’re not friends.”
“No, we’re definitely not,” I say, and then they’re back by my side, holding out a mirror. I lift it to study their work. It’s stunning. Better than my sketch. The shadow work is breathtaking, creating the illusion of light on the wings. “But fuck, you’re good at this.”
Mari takes their mask off at the wrong moment because I can see the blush in their cheeks. “Hold still. I need to wrap it.”
“Yes, boss.” They flash me a look before standing and walking to the rear wall, which is lined with drawers and shelves. They return with the wrap, and I dutifully lay still.
“There,” they say when it’s covered. “You know the drill, right?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, lifting the mirror to admire their work again.
“I imagine it was a big sale,” Mari says. “To put that design front and centre on your chest.”
“It was a big sale,” I reply. I should stand. I should put my shirt back on, but I don’t move. And it’s not because, since top surgery, Iam a lot more comfortable having my upper body nude. I also can’t help but notice that Mari doesn’t move either. “Which is handy because work has slowed down again.”
“Again?” Trust them to pick up on that word.
“Yeah, I’ve been struggling. Creatively constipated or some bullshit.”
“But you said you wanted to focus on your work. That’s why you haven’t been in touch with Roos.”
Words dry up in my throat. There’s no way I can tell Mari that I don’t want to see Roos because I don’t want her to be my inspiration. The same way I don’t want Mari to be. I need to be able to create without them fucking up my head.
“Yeah, there’s a lot of admin and shit these days. It’s not all fucking around, painting and doodling.”
I see the moment Mari takes it as a slight, and I open my mouth to explain it away, to reassure them, but close my lips because we are not there yet. We are not in a place where I’m supposed to care about their feelings. But I can say this, “It really is very fucking good.” I point at my chest.
Mari does not react as I expect. They look horrified and angry. “You thought I’d fuck it up?”
My laughter is loud, short, and ugly. “No, of course not. Jesus, I’m just trying to give you a compliment.” I get up, find my shirt, and pull it on. I have my back to them as I do the buttons up.
“Well, thanks,” they mumble behind me, and I hear clattering of metal, drawers opening and closing.
I’m still buttoning up my shirt when they stand and tell me they’ll wait for me at the counter.
Once they’ve left the room, I feel more alone than I should. It’s like the cold air outside reaches me and snakes down my back, making me shiver. I rush to pull my vest on over my shirt. I hope it’s not still snowing. If I’d been sitting with Ivan or anyone else, I’d juststay and have a coffee and wait for the bad weather to pass, but there’s no way I can do that with Mari here.
At the counter, they have already got my bill ready. They pick up the pin machine and point it at me. I pay with my phone without even checking how much it is. I don’t care. It’s only when the transaction goes through that I realise I didn’t tip them, and I always tip my artists.
I debate internally about telling them to put through another transaction for a tip, but they’ve turned their back to me and are busy making a coffee, foaming milk noisily.
Glancing out of the window, the snow has morphed into a thick and no doubt cold rain. I shiver again at the thought of going out in it.
“You can stay here,” they say without turning around. They stop foaming milk. “Until it passes.”
