Cleopatra and Frankenstein(111)

She took the bottle and chugged, dribbles of water escaping from either side of her mouth.

“Whoa, steady,” Marshall yelled. “This stuff is strong.”

“Good.”

She tossed the bottle back to him and pushed past them into the mass of dancers. She was being elbowed and shoved on all sides. Everyone felt taller than her. A man with a skull tattoo covering his shaved head grabbed her waist and began dancing with her, grinding his hips against hers. She steadied herself against him for a moment as he pulled her in closer, pushing his damp face into her neck. She grabbed his arms, then dug her nails into him as hard as she could.

“What the fuck!” he yelped, thrusting her away from him. She could hear him yelling as she slipped back into the crowd. Crazy bitch.

She found her way to the edge and ducked into a side room filled with tall glass candles painted with images of the Virgin Mary. The whole room glowed yellow. And there, at the center of the light, was Danny Life. He was wearing all white, a tailored boiler suit and pristine leather work boots. With him was an art critic Cleo recognized. He was eagerly holding a recording device in front of Danny, though he appeared to be doing most of the talking.

“To what extent is your work autobiographical?” the critic asked.

“What do you mean, autobiographical?”

“You know,” said the critic. “How have your own experiences with street violence informed your work? Do you—”

“Listen, man,” Danny interrupted. “I grew up in Pound Ridge. My mother’s an epidemiologist. Look it up if you don’t know what that is.”

“But the guns …”

Cleo stood behind him and mimed shooting herself in the head with her eyes crossed. Danny’s handsome face cracked into a smile. His white teeth glowed.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He pushed past the critic and gave Cleo a hug. “Cleo the cat. I hoped I’d see you.”

“Look at you.” Cleo smiled. “The hottest thing in town.”

“That’s me.” He laughed. “How are you?”

The critic gave Cleo a withering look and skulked away.

“Homeless.” She shrugged. “Unemployed. Single. You?”

She could feel something inside her coming loose, like the first cracks in the walls before an earthquake.

“Shit, man. Doing better than you, that’s for sure.”

Cleo laughed. Danny wasn’t prone to sympathy, something she’d always liked about him. Fondness was the best word she could think of to describe what they felt for each other. Fondness was warm but not tepid, the color of amber, more affectionate than friendship but less complicated than love. Back during their school days, they’d lie together twisted in his sheets, flicking ash from their joints into a Coke can by his bed, and chat comfortably about their work, the artists they were researching, the other people they were sleeping with.

“You seriously homeless?” asked Danny. “I just got asked to nominate someone for this residency in Rome. You want to do it?”

Cleo didn’t know what she wanted. She was saved from answering by a girl wearing a leather bra and pants running toward Danny and jumping on his back.

“Love you, Danny,” she screeched, kissing the side of his face.

“Love you too, babe,” Danny said. “But I’m going to need you to get off me now.”

The girl fell away from him, laughing, and went to join her friends taking pictures. Danny looked at Cleo and took her hand.

“You want to come with me? I need a break from these people. They gave me my own trailer. It’s crazy.”

The trailer was lined with thick carpet and contained a large velvet sofa and vanity table holding rows of liquor and champagne bottles. Overheard, a chandelier winked at her. She could feel its light like feathers on her skin. She felt as though her blood had been carbonated. Danny looked at her eyes and cracked up.

“You on something?” he asked.

Cleo nodded.

“You want a drink?”

Cleo nodded again. She could feel the glow from the chandelier warming her from the inside. She reached up and touched one of the crystal teardrops. A rainbow of light swung across her face.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She closed her eyes.

“Groovy,” she said. “We should use that word more. Grooooovy.”

“Here.”

He walked over and unhooked a crystal from its strand on the chandelier. Very gently, he removed the stud from her right earlobe and pushed the crystal’s wire through the hole. She could feel the sudden tug on her lobe as he pulled his hands away, the unfamiliar weight by her cheek.

“Now you look groovy too.” He took a bottle of champagne and drank straight from the neck, then passed it to her. “You hungry?”

They sat on the sofa and Danny passed her the largest bag of potato chips she’d ever seen. He took a handful and crunched on them.

He shrugged. “Sponsors.”

“This is bigger than your ice sculpture,” Cleo said.

They began to laugh, and the laughter gained momentum until they couldn’t stop, helpless tearful peals, pulling all breath from their bodies. Each time one looked at the other, it started up again. Cleo’s stomach hurt from it. It had been so long since she’d laughed like that. Once the last spasms had subsided, Danny wiped his eyes and looked at her seriously.