These Violent Delights

by Whitecroft, Jess

  “That’s her?”

  “Uh huh. Over here. Keep your head down and just watch.”

  I suppose that must be Romeo and Juliet up there right now. Romeo is brown-haired and looks lanky compared to Milos, who is compact and tightly muscled, while Juliet is a pale streak of a redhead, her arms hanging limp and her toes pointed. She sags towards the floor and falls, face down.

  “Check out her arches,” says Milos, like he’s forgotten he’s talking to someone who knows nothing about ballet. “They’re perfect.”

  Madame Levonian claps her hands. “Okay. And we go again, this time with the lift, Ed. From the top. Places.”

  Juliet gets up from the floor and goes over to the dais. There she stretches herself out and lies flat, her hands folded over her breasts. I realize what I’m about to watch – the tomb scene. Milos told me about this.

  The piano starts up. “So Paris comes in. Stab stab stab. You step over his body, come to the slab, aaa-nd…”

  Romeo comes up to the slab where Juliet is lying in the Capulet tomb. He takes her wrist, but she’s lifeless. He puts his arms around her and tries to lift her, but she flops back like a ragdoll. Then – most pathetic of all – he takes her arms and tries to wrap them around him in an embrace, but it’s no good. She’s gone, or so he thinks. Milos’s fingers find mine and I glance over; he’s absorbed, enthralled, and I’m relieved to find that so am I. I always thought Shakespeare without words would be pointless, but this is genuinely painful to watch. As Romeo lifts Juliet’s body from the slab I want to cry; she looks absolutely dead and he moves like one completely shattered. I can’t imagine the skill it must take for Juliet to make her way around the stage like that without betraying a single sign of life. He picks her up and tries to dance with her, but she falls like a feather every time, trailing her limbs across the stage. He lifts her and spins her around on his shoulders, but she may as well be an empty dress. Milos’s tightens his grip on my hand.

  Romeo sets Juliet’s corpse back on her slab, one arm dangling. He staggers, overwhelmed by grief, then he takes out his vial of poison, lifts it to his lips and throws his head back as he downs it. He kisses Juliet one last time, his hands on her hair, and then the poison goes to work and he writhes in pain, stumbling against the side of the slab. He’s almost bent double as he scrambles up alongside her and then he collapses, face down across the slab at her feet.

  I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  The music is barely there now, just a steady thump thump, like a heart remembering how to beat. Because this isn’t over. There’s more agony to come, because we know what Romeo doesn’t; Juliet isn’t dead. She stirs, her thin white arms rising from the divan, stretching upwards as she lifts herself like a woman on wires. In death she was grace itself, but in life she’s somehow even more beautiful. Her arms tremble as she stretches, and then she sees him and she folds like she’s been shot in the gut. She grabs at Romeo, her mouth wide and her face like a mask of tragedy, rocking back and forth in silent but eloquent grief.

  Then the dagger. My other hand is over my mouth. I can hear Milos breathing next to me.

  Juliet brings down the knife. She bends, clutching at her ribs. The knife clatters from her fingers and she sinks, down and down, until she comes to rest across Romeo’s back, her arms and her red hair streaming down over the end of the slab.

  I breathe. My eyes are wet.

  “Wonderful, wonderful. But I’m still seeing some knee action there, Liane. Keep it fluid. Keep it invisible.”

  Juliet groans and crawls off Romeo’s body. “Yeah, okay,” she says, gathering back her hair. Romeo slithers off the end of the divan and shakes out his sweaty t-shirt. He catches Milos’s eye and raises an eyebrow. Milos and I are still holding hands.

  I go to disengage, but Milos is having none of it. “Relax. I’m no longer your student, remember? And Ed knows I’m dating a guy.”

  “Dating? Is that what we’re doing?”

  “Well, fucking like crazed minks, if you really wanna split hairs. It’s better than dating, and a lot cheaper.” He releases my hand and smiles as the director turns her attention towards us.

  “And where did you escape to, Prince of Cats?” she says.

  “The English department, actually,” says Milos. “This is Professor Moore. He has a doctorate in Elizabethan dramatists and I thought he might get a kick out of seeing us rehearse.”

  Madame Levonian is suspicious, as well she might be, but I leap on my cue. “It’s a privilege. It really is.”

  “You like our dance?” she says.

  “So much. I’m afraid I don’t know much about ballet, but I never imagined you could perform Shakespeare so perfectly without words. The sheer physical eloquence is just…it’s blinding, really. Absolutely underscores the futility of the whole piece. There’s no grand finale, no promise of eternal love in the afterlife. They’re just very, very dead. Another two bodies to add to the pile.”

  She tilts her head, but I can’t stop talking, and I think I’m doing what Milos wants of me. “I really felt as though I was watching them die, and that’s the essence of Romeo and Juliet to me. People say it’s about love but it’s also about death, and the futility of death. They’re so young but they’re not immune to being stamped out like a pair of unlucky butterflies who live only for a handful of days. It’s the heart of the tragedy – how pointless their deaths are. All the deaths are. I’m aware my view is treasonous, but in some ways I actually find Romeo and Juliet bleaker than King Lear.”

  She’s staring at me and I slow my roll. “Sorry, I’m babbling.”

  “No, not at all. This is very interesting, I think.” Madame nods and wanders off, just like that.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” says Milos, carefully concealing his grin in case she turns around and spots his scheme. “But I think you might have just talked her out of it.”

  “Ha. I’m brilliant.”

  “I know you are. How are you so fucking smart?”

  “Me?” I say, spotting Romeo from across the room. He’s looking right at us. “It was your idea.”

  “Oh, I’m not smart,” he says. “Just devious.” Romeo approaches, and Milos curls his lip in a theatrical sneer. “The fuck you want, Montague?”

  “Just thought I’d come say hello, Kitty.”

  “Funny guy,” says Milos. “Tom, this is Ed. Ed, Tom.”

  “Hi.” I take his hand. “You were incredible. Both of you. I was almost in tears.”

  But Ed’s not here to find out what I thought of his performance. “So,” he says. “You two are…?”

  “Yep,” says Milos. “And quit looking so worried. I just dropped English, so there’s no conflict of interest.”

  Ed looks vaguely appalled, and I don’t blame him. There’s no way that the whole student/teacher aspect doesn’t sound shady.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I say. “Honestly. He didn’t drop English because of me; he was actually quite bad at it.”

  Milos stiffens. “Uh, thanks, honey.”

  “You’re welcome, darling.”

  Ed blinks. “Yeah, well. I think it’s great and everything,” he says, so awkward and earnest that I see immediately why Milos likes him. “Weird, but…well, not weird, but, you know. He was straight and stuff, before he wasn’t, so it’s gonna take a little bit of getting used to, but–”

  “–Ed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

  “Good plan.”

  “It was nice to meet you,” he says.

  “You too,” I say, as he makes his escape. “So that’s your roommate?”

  “Yeah,” says Milos. “He’s no rocket scientist, as you’ve probably guessed, but he’s a good guy.”

  “So you’re taking your first tentative steps out of the closet, then?”

  He shrugs. “Dunno. Was I really closeted if I didn�
�t even know there was a closet, never mind that I was in it?”

  “Sounds like a job for the Philosophy department to me,” I say, checking the time. “Look, I have to get back, but how about dinner?”

  Milos frowns. “Dinner?”

  “Yes. Since you mentioned dating earlier I thought we might try that. It’s a thing people do when they’re dating, apparently; they get food and eat it together. I’m told it’s quite fun.”

  “Right,” he says, stretching his back. “Did anyone ever tell you sarcasm was the lowest form of wit?”

  “Yes. Often. But I never believed them.”

  “Obviously,” he says, and tiptoes up to kiss me full on the mouth. “Dinner sounds great. What time?”

  “Six?”

  “Cool.”

  “Want me to pick you up?”

  “Yes, please,” he says, his fingers relaxing around mine. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I say, and turn to walk away. As I go I catch him in the corner of my eye, hitching a heel into the air as if it was nothing. I feel strangely weightless myself, like I’ve cut the strings anchoring me to earth and there’s no going back now, not now that everyone’s seen me kiss him out there in the open like that.

  I float back to the English department, so dazed that I nearly jump clean out of my skin when my phone rings. It’s Otter.

  “What’s up?” I ask, hurrying down the hall towards my office. Class in less than ten minutes. The Scarlet fucking Letter, because nowhere in New England is safe from Nathaniel Hawthorne and his prolix historical toss.

  Otter sighs before he speaks and I know right away that it’s nothing good. “It’s Simon.”

  “Oh God. What now?”

  “Tom, I really think you need to speak to him.”

  I close the office door behind me. “No, I don’t. I’ve had enough, thank you very much.”

  “Yeah, I know, but he’s a mess.”

  “And how is this new information?” He’s a gay man pretending to be a straight man. Of course he’s a fucking mess.

  “Please, Tom,” says Otter. “He’s crying and he’s just…he’s just totally distraught.”

  “So remind him that Jesus loves him.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line and I’m tempted to just hang up. Why is he even telling me this? Why is this still my problem?

  “You can be a real cunt sometimes,” says Otter. “You know that?”

  “Well, what, Otter? What the fuck am I supposed to do? He broke up with me. I’ve moved on. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do when someone breaks up with you.”

  “I know, but his fiancée or whatever she was threw him out.”

  I almost smile. He’s not wrong; I can be a real cunt sometimes. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Turned out – and this will shock you – that he had kind of a serious gay porn habit behind her back.”

  “You’re right,” I say, gathering up a pile of question sheets. “That is shocking. Who would have thought?”

  “Please, Tom. He’s crying his eyes out–”

  “–wait, he’s there?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I think he might…hurt himself or something. Can’t you just come over and talk to him?”

  “And say what? ‘Sorry your girlfriend found out that Jesus hasn’t made you any less gay. Wanna fuck?’ It’s not going to happen, Otter. If I know Simon I know he’s counting on me still having some lingering feelings for him, and I did – for a while. But no more. I’m done. I’m…I’m seeing someone else. We’re in love. We’re having dinner together. And I have a class in like five minutes.” I’m whining, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “Oh my God, Otter – don’t I deserve this one little break? Simon made his own choices when we broke up.”

  “Yeah, I know that. I do. I’m calling you from the upstairs bathroom and I can still hear him howling down there. He might even need a temporary psych hold.”

  I’m going to be late, but this isn’t a thing you can hang up on. I know he has no idea of my schedule, but some mean-spirited little corner of my soul is muttering about how Simon this is, to time losing his shit at the worst imaginable moment. Like making me meet him in public to tell me he’s straight now and that he’s getting married to a woman. Somewhere I can’t give into temptation and just pop him in the mouth. I loved him desperately once, but it’s over. It’s really over. All I feel now is annoyed.

  “Okay,” I say. “So maybe you should do that.”

  Otter is silent for a moment, and I don’t blame him. It looks like I’m passing the buck, but it’s simply no longer my buck to pass. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No. I’m not. I can’t do this again.”

  He snorts. “What? Because you think you’ve earned enough karma to get out of it?”

  “No. Because I’m done. I don’t have anything left. I don’t have it in me to pick up after him any more.” I clench a fist and narrowly resist the urge to smack something. The desk, the wall. Anything that will hurt. “Please don’t make me go through this again, Otter. Please. I’m sorry this has landed on you, but this is his problem, not yours. Just…do what you have to do.”

  “You want me to have your ex committed? Thanks, Tom. Thank you so much for that responsibility.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, determined not to cry. “I can’t do this. Not now. I’m running late. I have to go.” I hang up, babbling excuses. My eyes burn with the kind of angry tears that do nothing but that – just burn, instead of flowing freely. The kind that used to make me cram my fists in my mouth and scream like a toddler too incoherent to do anything but rage. Bite marks, bruises, sore patches, all those carefully concealed signs that behind closed doors I was – as Milos would put it – losing my shit.

  The desire rises again, so big and raw and ugly that it almost knocks the breath out of my lungs. I thought I had it under control, but it’s back with a vengeance. I want to scream, to lash out, to bleed, to hurt, because I can’t contain this much fury in one body. It has to come out somewhere. Has to.

  I flail out hopelessly, sending my notes and planner halfway across the office. It’s pathetic and unsatisfying, but seeing the mess on the floor sobers me a bit, underscores how stupid I’m being. So childish. Thirty-two and still throwing tantrums. What am I going to do next? Smack my head against the wall? Scream until I puke?

  Bending down, I gather up my things. A slip of paper falls out as I pick up the lesson planner. It’s that note that Milos passed to Emma in class, the one with the web address. Feels like such a long time ago, as if there wasn’t a world back then, in the days when Milos was still a stranger to me. I never did look up the address.

  My head feels swimmy the way it often does in the wake of anger. I dig my nails hard into the base of my thumbs and let the pain bring me back to something approaching sanity. The Scarlet Letter. Let’s go.

  I should get one of those myself. I deserve it right now. A is also for Arsehole.

  *

  “I was thinking about a cat,” says Milos, baring the inside of a bicep, one of the few places left bare on that arm. “Or crossed swords. Or maybe both, but I don’t like any of the designs I’ve seen so far. It’s like all the cat tattoos are really girly and all the sword tattoos are like – I don’t know, lame, I guess. Like katanas or broadswords or shit that just screams ‘nerd’ from fifty paces…” He sighs and glances over at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Me? Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Everything is wonderful. I just told a dear friend – who is probably no longer comfortable calling me a friend – to have my ex-boyfriend committed. I’m absolutely fine and dandy. Screaming internally, but outwardly composed. “I’m fine.”

  Milos arches a thick black eyebrow. “Sure,” he says, and I’m fucked. There’s that emotional intelligence he tested so high on. “That’s why you let me talk all the way here.”

  “I always let you talk.”

  “Yeah, but most o
f the time you participate,” he says. “A lot. Not like today. You’ve hardly said a word.”

  I pull up in my drive, wondering what to tell him. What the hell is he going to think of me if he knows I did that to Simon? Maybe he’ll even applaud; he’s still convinced that Simon was responsible for the damage to his car, and in all the paranoid moments I’ve had this afternoon I have to confess there were one or two where I entertained the passing suspicion that Milos may have been right all along.

  “Come on,” says Milos. “Spill it. You getting cold feet because we came out to someone?”

  “God, no.” He’s giving me an out, but I can’t take it. Not without hurting him. “Not at all. Actually it’s nice to have it out in the open.”

  “Then what?”

  “There is no what. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “It?” says Milos. “There’s an it now?”

  “No. There’s no it and there is no what. Everything’s fine.”

  He sighs. “Okay. Whatever you say. Pop the trunk, will you? I need to get my bag.”

  Milos gets out of the passenger seat. I reach into the glove box for my sunglasses and then there’s a screech, a scream. Metal crashes and I go flying forward so fast that I swear I can feel my brain sloshing against the inside of my skull. A fierce bolt of pain cracks me across the ribs and there’s a whoosh as the airbag explodes in my face. My seatbelt is tight and when I breathe it hurts, but through the fog of my panic I vaguely realize that if I’d unclipped it before I looked in the glove box, I could very well be dead right now.

  Oh God. Milos.

  I leap out of the car, barely registering the other vehicle that’s rear-ended me. Milos is on the lawn, scrambling to his feet. Thank God for his dancer’s agility. He must have sprung sideways as soon as he saw it coming. His elbow is bleeding and his fists are clenched.

  “Motherfucker,” he says, reeling past me and towards the other car. There is murder in his eyes.

  It takes me a moment to figure out what’s going on. My brain feels scrambled and my neck is already killing me. The door of the other car opens and Simon staggers out, looking as dazed as I feel. I barely have time to register that his nose is bleeding before Milos goes flying at him and lands a smack to his jaw.