Perfect Match

by Alexis Alvarez

  Fia spit out her tea, not at the words, but at the fact that he’d said that to her, with such a solemn face. “Dylan! You made me choke.”

  “Just like she did, apparently.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Gross!” But thinking about Dylan’s dick was a turn-on, and she imagined herself on her knees, busy working his cock, making him cry out in pleasure—but their night together was supposed to have been a one-time event.

  A thought occurred to her. “Look, there’s something wrong with that scenario.”

  “No, there really isn’t.” He leered at her.

  “Listen. The girlfriend is a vegan, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And they don’t eat any animal products. At all.”

  “Correct.”

  “So technically, she really shouldn’t be sucking his cock and swallowing his jiz. Animal product. Taboo. She cheated on her veganism. She’s a fake vegan. Someone needs to call her out.”

  Now it was Dylan’s turn to spit out his tea. “Only you.”

  “Oh, if I’ve thought it, I’m sure someone else has too. And technically, if he’s a vegan, too, he can’t go down on her, either. Meat juices all the way, baby.” She smacked her lips loudly. “Yum, yum, enjoying that meaty pleasure, yes, ma’am!”

  She’d never seen Dylan laugh so hard. When he settled down, he smiled. “I’ll have to notify Mark and Joy that they’re dirty cheaters. They’ll probably be excommunicated from the Vegan Fold and forced to move to Texas cattle country, or something.”

  “Well, Jesus, it’s only what they deserve,” she said. “Nasty meat-eating assholes. Speaking of that, I wish they had steak here. Can we sneak in some steak?”

  The waiter was standing beside her, his brown hair twisted up into a bun. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I’m Marco, and I’ll be taking your order today. Just to let you know? We do have a lovely veggie patty, made with locally sourced quinoa, diced kale, seven different types of mushrooms, including maitake, and bean curd. Maitake mushrooms have healing properties, as you probably know.”

  “I’ll steak it. I mean, take it.” Fia shot Dylan a smirk and smiled when he snorted into his hand.

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll try the bean sprout gazpacho. My friend said it delivered good results.” He gave Fia the smirk right back.

  When the waiter left, Fia put her head into her hands, then peeked out. “We’re terrible people. Right?”

  “Definitely.” Dylan didn’t seem at all perturbed. He leaned back and smiled. “The worst.”

  “Do you mean wurst, like the German sausage?”

  “I didn’t, but let’s pretend I did. Yes.” He nodded. “Tell you what. Whoever can make the most meat jokes to the waiter without him noticing wins a prize.”

  “Like he wouldn’t notice? Please.”

  “He doesn’t eat meat. It will go right by him.”

  The waiter was back with flat bread pieces and olive tapenade. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” Fia said, and added quickly, “I ham really glad to get this, because I’m so starving.” She gave him a big smile.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “Yeah, my cow-worker said this dip is really tasty.”

  The waiter glanced up briefly. “Yeah, it’s kind of our claim to fame. If you want more, just wave me over. These are from olives sourced from Flournoy and pressed by hand in small batches.”

  Fia and Dylan both eyed each other. Fia opened her mouth but Dylan spoke first. “Oh, awesome. You know, I had a great coffee table book about the olives of Greece, but I can’t read it too often, because it makes mignon.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll be back soon with your entrees.”

  When he left, Fia burst into a strangled laughter. “Mignon? Oh my God. You were really reaching with that one.”

  “You mean winning. It’s so good. You didn’t even think of it. Admit you’re jealous.”

  “Jealous? No. It barely makes sense.”

  “The book makes me yawn. Makes mignon. Like beef, filet mignon.”

  “Oh, I got it. I just think it was weak.”

  “It was so far above you that you can’t even appreciate the heights of its awesomeness. Anyway, I’m ahead now, two to one. And that second should really count for two points, so I’m ahead three to one. Your move, princess.”

  She didn’t want to admit that she liked the way he drawled ‘princess’ at her, like he was insolent, teasing, but also secretly dying to please her. All in one little word.

  “I move to strike your last comment because it’s so dumb. We are currently even, one to one.”

  He rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” She grinned at him and then spread some of the tapenade onto the flatbread. “Listen, when the waiter comes back, I’m going to go whole hog and win this thing. I have a great one. You’ll never think of it.”

  She popped the bite into her mouth and nearly gagged on the salty, bitter flavor. “Mggrhrhfhd.” She waved her hand violently, grabbed at her water and her napkin, got to the water first, swallowed, teared up, and then took a deep breath. “Jesus Christ.”

  “You all right?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Totally fine. What’s not fine is this dip.”

  “Don’t say such a thing. You’ll break Marco’s heart.”

  “You taste it and then lecture me. I dare you.”

  “Well, I can’t resist a dare.” He lathered up a slice of bread and ate it, and a second later, a look of pure despair crossed his face.

  “You see!”

  “This isn’t food! This is road tar.” He drank his water. “It’s the stuff they filter out of the bottom of fish tanks.”

  “Right? Now you’re thinking it’s not so funny that I wanted to smuggle in a steak.”

  The waiter was back with their plates.

  Fia licked her lips. “So, Marco? I’ve been making a real heifer-t to watch my salt intake, and although this tapenade is lovely, I just can’t finish. Can you perhaps box it up for us?”

  “Of course.” Marco set down their dishes and picked up the olive mix. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Dylan nodded. “Well, the tofu stack snack looks irresisti-bull. Fia, you in the mooo-d for some tofu?”

  She snuffled into her napkin and Dylan continued, “So bring us one of those. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.” The waiter picked up the tray and hurried back to the kitchen.

  “In the mooood? Lame.”

  “Heifer didn’t even fit.”

  “Oh it fits, all right.”

  “That’s what you said the other night.”

  Fia flushed. “Let’s just eat.”

  Fia took a bite of her entrée. It was edible, so she ate some more bites. “Wasn’t there an artist who displayed sliced cows and stuff? Did you hear about that?”

  Dylan’s whole body seemed to come to attention, like this topic was especially interesting to him. “You’re talking about Damien Hirst. He’s one of the Young British Artists. He displayed sharks in formaldehyde and cows in various guises.”

  “Yeah, wasn’t there an uproar a while back?”

  “Oh, more than one. Some of his works are called cruel, and some museums refused to display them because of worries the patrons might vomit.”

  “Seriously?”

  “One of his first was a rotting cow head in a large glass case with maggots and flies feeding on it.”

  “Gross!” Fia took an enthusiastic bite of her food. “Tell me more.”

  “The one that was banned? It was called Two Fucking and Two Watching.”

  “That’s just precious.”

  “Ha. It featured a rotting cow and bull. He won the Turner Prize, a very important honor. But New York public health officials decided the work shouldn’t be displayed because it might induce too much vomiting in guests.”

  “Sweet. Too bad he didn’t know about this tapenade, though. He could have made bank by exhibiting a plate of this stuff.�
��

  “He’s already made bank. He’s listed as the UK’s richest living artist.” His face twisted into an expression Fia wanted to investigate, but in a second, he was back to his regular look. “Strange, isn’t it? A person who displays rotting animals makes millions upon millions. And then there are others who work for years on things that require so much dexterity and skill, and they don’t get anywhere.”

  Fia nodded. “It is strange. Why do you think his stuff got so popular?”

  Dylan shrugged. “Who knows? Novelty, partly. It was new and strange. He was the first to do it as art. Of course, animal bodies have been displayed in museums for centuries. But he was the first to put them in pretty glass cases and call them fucked up names and describe them as fine art. People ate it up.”

  “Not literally.” Fia giggled.

  Dylan snorted. “Some of them probably would, given his fame, and the chance.”

  “Not the ones who come here, though.”

  “Agreed.” He was silent for a second, then said, “So, he’s a controversial figure, but he said something interesting. He said that art is important in the concept, not the execution.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s famous for his spot paintings. Basically, huge canvasses with evenly spaced spots of color. He sells them for millions. But most of them are painted entirely by his assistants, not him! And because they’re sold as his, they’re valuable. He believes that the creative act is the conception, not the execution. It was his idea, so he’s the real artist, even if he’s not the one carrying out the actual process of the art. He even says his assistant Rachel does the best spot paintings.”

  “That’s sort of insane!” Fia put down her fork. “That’s like saying Michelangelo isn’t the real artist of David if he didn’t conceive of David first. Or if someone told Da Vinci to paint the Mona Lisa, and Da Vinci did it, the other person is the real artist because it was his idea to do it.”

  She paused. “Of course, spots are easy to paint. I could do spots. Our waiter could do spots! None of us could paint a masterpiece like Da Vinci. It’s easy for Hirst to make that claim if it’s childishly simple things people are copying for him and selling. He’s smart. He pulled a trick so good that the whole art world got fooled.”

  “But there are others who do that, too. Think of Chihuly. Dale Chihuly.”

  “The gorgeous glass sculptures that show up in botanical gardens, and casinos in Vegas, and museums.”

  “Right. But he relies on assistants to do most of his work, too. He designs the thing, conceives it, and has others carry it out. And his stuff, too, is worth millions.”

  “But his stuff is pretty,” argued Fia. “And forging glass is more complicated. And yes, it’s also sort of…cheating. Not cheating. I guess if it’s a team project, and people still buy it because of the name, it’s not cheating? If they know what they’re getting isn’t completely made by the artist?” She paused. “It’s messing with my head!”

  “You could get a canvas and spot it up and nobody would buy it. But if you were Hirst’s assistant, you could give him that canvas and he’d sell it for millions. Just because he touched it and approved of it.”

  “I am Damien Hirst, and I approve this artwork.” Fia shook her head. “It really makes you ponder what makes something art. I always believed it was something intrinsic to the piece itself. Like you see a painting, or a sculpture, and it speaks to you. You love it, want to touch it, own it, pull it into your soul. You crave it, or you’re fascinated by it. Not the person who made it, but the thing itself.”

  “That’s what I thought too.” His voice sounded rueful. “I did, too.” He sighed. “But modern art is about so much more than the art. It’s about name, and brand, and popularity, and money, and reputation. The art itself is almost meaningless unless it’s attached to all of the other things. People will buy and display a rotting shark from Hirst, and ignore the most intricate painting by an unknown.”

  “Are people such lemmings? I see it happen all the time, but I don’t know why.”

  “It’s a question for psychologists,” said Dylan. “Why do humans have the urge to cluster together and elevate something into an icon they can all worship? It must be something in us that needs to follow. The act of following is more important than the thing itself that we follow. The thing itself could easily be swapped out for anything else as long as we have that social comfort, the social construct, of the caste-like system of fame and fortune, of seekers and worshippers.”

  “It’s like religion. People are losing God. Or even if they’re not, they still like that structure, so they create little cults around transitory things. Cross-fit. Paleo. Damien Hirst. Right? It’s like little churches dotting our globe, so many of them that we don’t even see them for what they are.”

  Dylan leaned in. “The sad thing is that if you’re an artist, you have to deal with all of that, you know? It’s not as simple as making something beautiful. You have to try to find your followers, your fans, your worshippers. You have to build your temple to display your wares. And all you really want to do is create.” He shook his head, then sat back in his seat and crossed his arms, a pensive expression on his face.

  He added, with a wry grin, “And also, you have to worry about trying to find someone who’ll love you even if you’re a starving artist who will never become a tenth as popular as a cow-cutter.”

  “Dylan.” It wasn’t the first time he’d come back to that, and from this conversation, she could tell that the topic meant something to him. Something personal. “Are you—is there something you’re not telling me?” She waited a second.

  He didn’t answer that. “Such is the life of a modern day artist, I suppose.”

  She shook her head. “That’s why I hate modern art. It pisses me off. Phony and meaningless.”

  He looked surprised. “What, all of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t unilaterally say that. Some of it is marvelous.”

  “Yes, I can. Modern art is crap. All of it. Even Chihuly, sort of. His stuff is pretty, but it’s Team C. It lacks soul.”

  “Fia, that’s not a fair thing to say.” He sounded frustrated.

  “Look, I like art, okay? I do. I even love some of it.” She leaned in, letting her truth out. “Like those sculptures in your house. There was something, I don’t know, wild and honest about them.”

  His eyes flashed at her. She continued, “But I hate the—monetization of it all. I hate thinking that I have to like something because the so-called Art World calls it good, and I have to pretend things are creative when they’re not. I hate the fact that people devote their college years to getting degrees in modern art, when it’s utter nonsense!” Her voice rose. “Think about it! Four years of your life, studying this guy who slices up cows. Four years making phony intellectual conversation about the depth and meaning and symbolism of his work. It’s so, so stupid. It’s like devoting yourself to false idols.”

  He looked like he was about to speak, but the waiter was back.

  “Boxes for these?” he asked, looking at their largely uneaten plates.

  “No!” Fia blurted out, then amended with, “I mean, we can’t. We’re, um, going somewhere and we can’t have them spoil. Better just to throw them out.”

  “I see.” The waiter nodded.

  “Um.” Now that he was back, Fia wanted to make another meat joke. “Um, so about dessert? I’m udderly stuffed but—”

  “Stop.” The waiter crossed his arms. “I know you don’t want dessert.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You just wanted an excuse to make jokes. I’m aware of your jokes. I heard every single one, okay?”

  “Oh. You did?” She flushed bright red.

  “Yes. I herd them. Get it? See, I can do it too.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes.” He leaned in and whispered. “And you’re right, the food here is terrible. If you want, there’s a calf-eteria around the block called Big
Baby, and it has the best damn burgers in this entire city.”

  “Haha! Dylan. He made a cow joke!”

  “Yes, I was there.” Dylan nodded.

  “Do people really like the tapenade?” Fia needed to know.

  “Well, it made L.A.’s best food list twice in a row. I think it’s because Benedict Cumberbatch eats here when he’s in town and raves about it. But when he comes, truth, he doesn’t even eat it. I think he just likes to say tapenade with his accent. Taaaapenaaaaahd.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “You should probably never come here again.” The waiter nodded.

  “But how can you say these things? You could be fired!” Fia giggled. “I mean, what if we told someone? Not that we will. We like you. I love you! But someone might.”

  “Oh, really?” The waiter gave her a look. “My manager is never here, and when she is, she’s listening to New Age music and meditating on a crystal vibration plateau. Trust me, she’s not likely to fire me. I’m her best waiter right now. Also, I’m probably quitting soon.”

  “And do what?”

  “Anything I want.” The waiter smiled. “Someday I’ll be in movies. It’s a big world. Why get locked into something you don’t love, just because you’ve been doing it for so long? I mean, I stay here long enough, I’ll turn into Skylight Blueberry Turnover—that’s my manager, and be putting crystal dildos into my vagina…well, if I had a vagina. I know this because she talks about it on the phone in the kitchen. Healing properties, especially the quartz blue one.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I’m thinking of starting a motivational talk for kids called Why To Stay In School. I have lots of material.”

  “So Big Baby? It’s good?”

  “The best. Oh, I should add, full disclosure, that I work there Tuesdays, Wednesdays and every other Thursday. Cheers!” He put the black check holder onto the table and sauntered off.

  “Wow. That was unique.” Fia watched him go. “He’s so…interesting.”

  “And so young! What is he, like twenty?” Dylan watched, too. “I like his attitude. That’s pretty boss. Anything I want. Kid has that figured out already. Pretty fucking smart.”