Cleopatra and Frankenstein(67)

“You should say you came up with it.” Frank took another gulp of seltzer.

“But I didn’t,” said Eleanor. “So I wouldn’t.”

“You are so not cut out for advertising,” said Frank. “It’s a good thing, trust me.”

Her hand was resting on the barstool between them, just beneath the view of anyone passing by. He patted it, then let his fingers linger on top of hers. The smooth planes of their palms rested one over the other like two tectonic plates shifting, finally, into position beneath the earth’s surface. Eleanor looked at him with her funny, intent gaze. He felt it all the way through him.

“I cannot lie, Frank,” she said quietly. “Even … even if I wanted to.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he said.

“Then what are you asking?”

If he could, he’d ask her if she remembered how the first time they met a current had passed from his hand to hers, an electric shock. It was a detail seemingly inconsequential, but which had come to signify everything to him. He would ask her if his emails were the highlight of her day, like hers were of his. He’d ask if her father was dying and if that was why she was always a little sad, even when she said she wasn’t. He’d ask her what it was like to have a father. He’d ask her if she believed you could be in love with two people at once. If she knew what it felt like to love someone you shouldn’t. If she knew what it felt like not to love yourself like you should.

“Nothing,” said Frank. “Just, um, that you step up on the real estate account, since I’m going to be focusing my time on Kapow! now.”

Crestfallen. That was the word for a face like hers. She pulled her hand out from under his.

“You got it, boss,” she said. She swallowed the remainder of her drink, slammed the glass on the bar between them, and belched loudly. “Look at that, I’m done.”

She shrugged on her homely puffer jacket and turned away. He watched her push through the crowd to the exit. Her curly hair was stuck in her hood. He watched her leave. The bartender came over to scoop up their empty glasses.

“You want another?” he asked.

“Sure,” Frank said. Then, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, he added, “This time with vodka.”



He must have left the bathroom door open when he got back. It was past midnight, and Cleo was already asleep. He’d stumbled home and taken a shower, trying to get the smell off him. He could hide it. If Cleo didn’t smell it, he could hide it. He’d woken up a few hours later needing to pee. He was still in the shallow end of sleep, bleary from the hangover, when he’d glanced down to see the sugar glider bobbing in the toilet bowl beneath him. Her body was pitching in the stream of his piss. She was face down, unfurled in the shape of a star. She looked like a fallen star.

He’d flushed her down. What else could he do? He’d flushed her body away before Cleo could wake up and see what he’d done. She spiraled, resisted, and disappeared. Afterward, he’d vomited for the first time in years, that familiar bent-kneed position bringing him back to the summers of his youth. Oh, Jesus. He looked into the foul, frothing water beneath him. He flushed. It would not go down. He flushed again. It didn’t work. The sullied water kept rising.





CHAPTER TEN


February


Anders was grudgingly attending the benefit auction at Cubed, a dumpling house turned independent gallery in Chinatown better known for its riotous after-hours parties than for any of the art it displayed. The space was packed with artist types, all dressed to express maximum individualism, yet all looking the same to Anders. You could recognize an art student anywhere in the world, he thought. The quest for individuality had resulted in the opposite: complete predictability. He peered over the bobbing crowd of beanies and bleached heads for someone he knew, spotted two women he’d slept with talking to one another by the far wall, and veered in the opposite direction toward the bar. New York, which had once fit him like a perfectly tailored suit, was feeling snugger every year.

On his way to the bar he bumped into Elijah, the creator of a cult-followed website that acidly reviewed the reviews of art shows, and whom Anders’s magazine was currently courting as a staff writer. Elijah was busy looking unimpressed at a sculpture comprised of sex toys on a conveyor belt as Anders approached.

“Have you ever noticed how closely a butt plug resembles a Native American arrowhead?” he asked.

“Good to see you too,” said Anders.

“I’m trying to find something to bid on,” he said. “Though I appear to be the only one.”

They made their way around the periphery of the gallery, Elijah declaring his opinions, mostly negative, in a loud falsetto. Anders absently scanned the photographs and paintings, keeping one eye out for the pair of women he’d spotted earlier. It never ended well for him when women united. If he was honest with himself, he was growing tired of the parade of beautiful creatures careening through his bedroom. Or rather, he was tired of himself. He had disappointed all of them. Not because he had broken any promises, but because he had refused to make any. He had offered them moments when they wanted months, years, marriages.

“You look lost in thought,” said Elijah. “Considering making a bid?”

Anders looked around. Most of the work here was impenetrable to him. It all looked like it had been made by computers. He bee-lined toward an oil painting of a nude woman. This one, at least, wasn’t bad. He liked that you could feel the painter’s presence on the canvas, the brushstrokes equal parts expressive and restrained. He leaned in closer to read the artist’s name. It was Cleo’s.