“I just started actually. My boyfriend has been hassling me to read it, so I thought I’d give it a go.”
“It sounds…hostile,” she said, staring at the cover.
“I suppose it is a bit, yes,” I said. And then I added, “He likes violent art. I think he’s drawn to it because he doesn’t know how to make it.” I was surprised that I said something so honest to a complete stranger. I thought about how mortified David would be if he knew that’s what I thought about him and I felt ashamed.
She smiled. It was a sort of faraway smile that didn’t reach her eyes. David was right. Nothing reached her eyes.
“Hey,” I said. “You have a stand in the Market, yeah?”
She looked up sharply and studied me like she was trying to place my face.
“Something like that.”
I figured she’d closed the conversation, shut me down, but then her face lit up in recognition.
“You’re with that musician. You come to the Market every Thursday!”
I shrank a little in my seat. What I said was even worse now that she knew who he was.
“I’m good with faces,” she shrugged. “I saw him perform once at The Crocodile.”
Ah, the good ol’ Crocodile. I smiled and changed the subject. What else was there to do once you’ve made an arse of yourself?
“You off today?”
She nodded. “A friend’s covering for me. Broke up with my boyfriend and couldn’t stand the thought of sitting there all day. So, I’m sitting here.”
“Bad guy?” I asked.
I was already thinking about calling David to tell him he was right. That would probably make him more sympathetic to her though, and I finally realized why I’d never liked the looks of her. Oh my God, you’re jealous! I told myself. That wasn’t part of what I did. It was something new for me and it made me uncomfortable.
“Yeah, you could say that. We’ve been on and off for a few years,” she said.
“What does it take to find a good guy who’s not a total pussy, you know?”
She looked at me suddenly and smiled. “But, you have one, don’t you?”
I finished off the rest of my tea and stood up. “It was nice chatting with you—”
“Petra,” she offered.
“Right. Lovely meeting you then, Petra.” I saw she was about to ask my name and I wanted to get the hell out of there before I had to tell her.
And then I slung on my coat and hurried from the shop like I had somewhere important to be other than with my insecurities. I didn’t tell David about my run-in with Petra aka Beanie Girl, and the next time we were at the Market, I insisted on walking a different way to our lunch spot. How did she know we were there every Thursday anyway? What a creep. The kind that looked blonde, and edgy, and slightly innocent, but would fuck you in every position known to man.
“How many girls flirt with you on any given day?” I asked him one day as we were walking to meet the guys for dinner.
David rumbled with laughter.
“What? That’s a legitimate question. You’re a musician. You’re supposed to philander.”
He raised an eyebrow then announced, “You’re jealous!” with extreme excitement. “That’s my new favorite thing about you, English.”
“No! David, no. I’m most certainly not jealous,” I lied. “It’s just a question.”
He rubbed a hand across his face as he thought. “I don’t know how to answer that. I’m around women all the time. They’re mostly friendly—chatty even—but what’s the line between being a friendly person and flirting?”
“Do they inspire you?”
“Pussy is very inspiring, Yara.” He laughed.
I punched him in the arm and that made him laugh harder.
He was so naive. He grabbed me by the waist before I could say anything else and spun me around to face him. We were in the middle of the sidewalk, our arms wrapped around each other—mine more hesitantly. A man in a bowler hat played a movable organ a few feet away.
“What does it matter? You’re the only one I want.”
“Pussy is pussy,” I said. “When women offer, men take.”
“Not true,” he said, frowning. And then—“Ah, well I’ve felt yours and there’s no going back.”
I smiled grimly, his words not offering me comfort. And why did I need comfort? David and I had a deal. I was here to inspire him, not fall for him.
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” I told him, somberly. “It’s all the slags who want to shag you.”
“Slags who want to shag me,” he repeated, his eyes glowing.
“Yes, David. You’re a musician. When you hold your guitar, women treat it like you’re holding your dick.”
He held his stomach as he laughed.
“Why would I want anyone else? That cute accent and ass,” he said.
“There are plenty of cute accents and asses where I come from,” I told him.
“Oh shit, well let’s never go there then,” he said.
I shook my head at him.
“I want you, English. I think about you all the time—no—scratch that. I obsess over you all the time. You’re my muse. Wasn’t that the deal? You’re worth every penny.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I liked it. I liked it so much I stopped to make out with him right there on the sidewalk.
“Dumb,” I said. “Ridiculous.” But I meant to flatter him with those words.
“Why you gotta be that way, English?” he said, reaching down to cup my backside. “When we have babies can they talk like you?”
I smacked his hand away. He was so good at this.
Petra aka Beanie Girl did not evaporate from our lives like I willed her to. On a Friday night in August, she came to The Crocodile in fishnets, a rose gold miniskirt, and a black wife-beater. She’d dyed her hair silver like those uber posh too-cool-for-school Suicide Girls, and in her sweaterless state I could see the ink all over her arms. Her whole look screamed—I don’t give a fuck because I’m a sex kitten. And I really resented that. Some of us were not sex kittens. Some of us wore proper pants and didn’t scribble on our skin, and we didn’t exactly know where our place was in life, but we actively tried to find it. Girls like Petra undermined the process. They made us feel dumpy and plain. They perhaps made our boyfriend think we’re dumpy and plain. Who knows? I didn’t want David to see her, but that was like asking for a rainbow to not be seen.
Throughout the night she carried around a bottle of organic beer. She watched out for herself even when getting drunk. Honestly, I wanted to puke at the sight of her. It didn’t feel right—her being here when David was playing. What exactly was she playing at? The band came on around ten after the opening act, and maybe it was my imagination, but I felt like she crept closer to the stage. She’d been dancing for the last hour with a careless abandon I didn’t possess, like it was just her in the room. David probably wouldn’t recognize her, she had different hair, and she wasn’t wearing a beanie. He’d be in the zone, ready to perform and probably high. He’d be looking for me in the crowd, not her. I was blowing things out of proportion. Plus, the more the merrier, right? We wanted to fill their shows, pack the house, get likes on the Facebook and Instagram pages. I found a spot in the back where I could watch everyone watch David and clutched my warm beer in my hand. I felt too sick to drink it. My favorite thing about coming to their shows was the effect they had on people. It was addicting to watch. He’s mine! I wanted to scream.
They were halfway through a song called “Babylon” when he recognized her. It was subtle. I’d only known him a few months myself, but I’d seen his eyes light up when he found me in a crowd. So when his eyes lingered on her a second longer than normal, and I imagined they made eye contact even though I couldn’t really be sure, I got chills all the way down to my toes.
Petra was there to steal my man. I threw my warm beer away and sulked along the back wall, listening to songs I’d heard a dozen times before.
“Absolutely,” I heard her say. “That’s the thing about art, isn’t it?”
I wanted to snort, I wanted to reach out and yank her fairy hair until she screamed from the pain. Stop talking to my boyfriend about art, you cunt.
David spotted me and everything changed. First he smiled, a deep smile that reached his eyes. Then he excused himself from the group that was gathered around him and pushed toward me.
“Hi, English.” He grabbed my face and planted a good one on me. I hoped that Petra was watching.
“Hi back,” I said. He smelled like sweat and adrenaline. I wrapped my arms around his torso and hugged him. The whole band was on fire tonight.
“That was fantastic,” I said. We stayed like that for a good thirty seconds with all of the disgusting liquor-soaked bodies bumping into us.
“There was an agent here,” he said. “On vacation with his wife. They happened to wander into this shit-hole and heard us play. He wants us to fly out to LA to meet some people.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. I searched the crowd for a couple with an LA vibe, but all I could see were sweaty, liquor-bloated faces.
“We’re going out for a drink to celebrate.” He motioned for the guys who’d finished packing up the equipment and were looking around for him. I felt so relieved. That’s why he was practically glowing, not because of Petra. I pictured a record deal and how many more Petras there would be.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” I said.
I was desperate for fresh air—all the people, all the things, smelled. He nodded and turned back to help load up Ferdinand’s truck while I headed toward the doors. I hadn’t caught sight of Petra since I walked up on them, and when David came toward me, she had disappeared from my mind altogether. He was so reassuring in the way he touched, and kissed, and doted on me. I felt silly for being worried about Beanie Girl. I didn’t want to think about her name anymore. That made her presence in our lives too personal. She was just Beanie Girl, the silver-haired slut from the Market who looked at my boyfriend with bedroom eyes. I almost felt foolish about the whole thing when the doors to The Crocodile opened and David walked out with Petra at his side. They were smiling—no—laughing about something, and for a second I thought he was going to take her arm and walk right past me.
I turned away so neither of them could see the look on my face. Ferdinand’s truck came bouncing around the corner and I headed toward it in a hurry. I didn’t know if David was driving, but right then all I wanted was to be tucked away in Ferdinand’s beater so no one could see my face. He called my name, but I pretended I couldn’t hear him as I ran for the truck. Ferdinand saw my face and opened the door for me without a word. I saw him look over his shoulder at Petra and David and he shrugged. David looked confused, but then Petra said something and they walked to where his car was parked on the street. Great! So now they’re riding together. That was probably the dumbest thing I could have done. Ferdinand looked at me in the rearview mirror. All I could see were his eyes.
“What? Have you never seen a jealous girlfriend before?”
“Didn’t you know that David only dates jealous women?”
“Shut up,” I said. And then—“Are you pulling my leg?”
He made a sharp turn and my head smacked into the window. I rubbed it as he opened a bag of beef jerky and offered me some across the backseat.
“You could have sat in the front you know.”
“I know,” I said, taking a piece.
“It’s his pattern,” Ferdinand said. “We all have patterns. David likes batshit crazy girls.” He glanced at me in the rearview again. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“I think he gets off on someone wanting him that bad. He’s the middle child.”
I’d never bought into the whole birth order business, sounded like a load of bloody excuses to me, but I leaned forward to hear what Ferdinand had to say.
“I’m not jealous,” I told him.
He laughed, his large shoulders bouncing up and down.
“And I’m not stupid.”
I sniffed sulkily and stared out the window. “I’m not. Girls just throw themselves at him. It’s disgusting.”
“Look,” he said. “You’re only what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-five,” I said.
“Yeah, so you have plenty of time.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that. Plenty of time for what? To figure myself out? To learn how to not be jealous?
“If it makes any difference, he likes you more than he’s ever liked another lady.”
I grinned at Ferdinand because I really liked hearing that. And no one had ever called me a lady.
When we got to the bar, a place called The Boheme, David’s car was already there, parked along the curb. They’d had enough time to go inside and find seats. Ferdinand helped me out of the truck and we walked together toward the door.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“The Boheme,” he said like I couldn’t read the sign myself. “I come here when I eat shrooms, the place is a trip.”
The Boheme was indeed a trip. The minute we walked through the doors I felt like I’d stepped into a Lewis Carroll novel. Every color, every texture, every pattern was thrown onto the walls. There were simple wooden booths in the bar and some high tops where people sat and drank out of colorful glasses. David waved to us from the back of the bar where he’d secured a large round booth. Petra was sitting toward the back and center with the girl I’d seen her come into the club with. She looked like a pierced, pink-haired Doris Day. I ignored both of them and gave David a tight-lipped smile when he walked up to me.
“Where’d you go?” he asked. Then he poked Ferdinand in the chest and pretended to be angry. “She’s mine,” he said.
Ferdinand shot me a look. “Are the other two yours as well?”
I covered my mouth to hide my smile. In two seconds Ferdinand had become my new best friend and favorite person on the planet.
David flushed. “I forgot to introduce you, Yara.” He turned his back on the girls and mouthed. “That’s the beanie girl from the Market.”
I tried to look amused.
“The other one’s her best friend, I think,” David said under his breath. I looked at Ferdinand, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
“But why are they here?”
“Petra is an artist,” he said. “She used to be in a band. I thought it would be nice for her to be around other artists.” He leaned toward me. “She just went through a bad breakup.”
I wanted to tell him that I knew, but instead, I chose to not be predictable. Ferdinand thought I was another one of David’s jealous girlfriends and I wasn’t.
“Okay,” I said, walking toward the booth with a smile.
“Hi, Petra,” I said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
Ferdinand the unbeliever laughed behind me as I scooted into the booth determined to not be that girl. The same girl as the ones he’d had before. My new resolve lasted approximately ten minutes.
Petra was one of those girls who didn’t even know she was flirting with your boyfriend while she was flirting with your boyfriend. It was sort of delicious to watch her if you weren’t on the shit end of it all. She was mostly composed of sex and casual advances. When she took a sip of her beer, for instance, she licked her lips like the gods’ own ambrosia had dripped on them. And when she had to think about something she bit her goddamn bottom lip and eye-fucked the air in front of her. This was her
norm. I imagined she grew up with a slut for a mother and a completely absent father, and this was the only way she knew how to talk to men. I was wedged in-between her and David, but sometimes they talked around me because artists had so much in common. When she spoke, her pillow lips moved sensually and in rhythm with her doe-eyed blinking.
Ferdinand, who was sitting across from me and next to her friend, Beatriz, was watching her with just as much rapt attention as I was. It was hard not to, honestly. If I were a guy I would have had a boner. Brick arrived ten minutes after us with twin sisters in tow. And then the LA couple arrived, their LA-ness shining off of them so hard I wished I’d brought my sunglasses. The wife was wearing neon pink pants. Everything else was monogrammed in Louis Vuitton. The big shot music guy was wearing tan chinos and had a lot of chest hair peeking through his white button-down. Not the nice kind that David had, the unruly kind that needed a trim and a good conditioner. We all crowded into a booth and the big shot ordered drinks all around. I rubbed David’s dick under the table to distract him from Petra, while the guy’s wife talked about their recent vacation to Italy. None of us had been to Italy so we all nodded and sipped, nodded and sipped. Finally the boys started talking shop and Petra and I took each other in.
“So, how long have you and David been together?” she asked.
I translated her question to: how easy would it be for me to steal your boyfriend?
Atheists Who Kneel and Pray Page 8
