The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  The Art of Love

  Anne Whitney

  For my mother, without whom this book would never have been possible, and for Nathan Fillion, because without his tight pants, this book would have been 100% less sexy.

  CHAPTER 1.

  The empty train pulls off without much of a sound, leaving me standing helplessly in its wake. Penn Station is nothing like I expected. Maybe in my imagination I’d pictured clean lines, or cleanliness period. Instead, my surroundings are dark, damp, abandoned, all cold steel and dirt caked over rusty beams and stained concrete. Five minutes since arrival and I am already abandoned, lost, and alone. Not to mention afraid.

  I haul my bag across my back and stumble toward a waiting staircase. A clock above my head ticks closer to midnight, but the drone of the city is still alive in the distance. Maybe I should have called my cousin to make sure she still lives here, or to find out where she lives in the first place. Or maybe I should have stayed...

  “Don’t think that,” I whisper under my breath.

  The thought disappears like dust caught by the wind.

  This late at night, the homeless are already clustered about on cardboard draped in thin sheets of newspaper. A pair of police officers armed with rifles look up at me with interest before turning away. Frizzy haired girls with backpacks and weary looks must not be as interesting as the sleepy rumblings of drunken men in scruffy beards across the dirt covered tile floor.

  Ten minutes since arrival and I’m already lost.

  Fifteen and I’m afraid.

  Twenty and I want to break down and cry where I stand, trapped in a corridor between a hot dog stand and a shuttered Starbucks. I stop and wave at a woman, desperate for help, but she ignores me and keeps walking. The same thing happens with the next woman who passes and the couple after her, as well, each too lost in their own private bubble to pay any attention.

  It takes half an hour before I finally surface beneath the massive sign labeling Madison Square Garden. The sun has long set, but New York really is the city that never sleeps. The skyline is bright and the streets are filled on a Friday night. I feel so small and utterly insignificant on these streets, surrounded by countless bodies that stride past me without so much as a second glance. Everything towers over me. These buildings that I’ve seen countless times in films and photographs seem unnatural up close. It’s not hard considering my height, a stocky 5’1”, built on a poor diet of TV dinners and soda for twenty long years.

  Swarms of people pour from the various buildings. My fingers instinctively tighten around the straps of my bag. In the history of bad decisions made in my lifetime, this will undoubtedly go down as one of the most ridiculous.

  I mentally count the scrunched up notes and loose change in the pockets of my jeans. I’ve got about $6.71 to my name, the rest spent on a one way ticket away from Spokane, heading for the great unknown. Buying last minute tickets wasn’t a smart move. The woman at the ticket counter had said as much as I’d begged for help three nights ago, dumping my savings onto her desk while sobbing.

  “You have to help me,” I told her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her name tag read Matilda. “You’re fifty short.”

  “I can’t stay here,” I said. “He’s going to hurt me. He’ll kill me if he knows I’m here.”

  She frowned and began pushing my money back into the jar. “I’m sorry.”

  The man behind me dropped his card on the desk over my shoulder.

  “Get the little lady here a ticket,” he told her sharply.

  The city air smells wet and metallic. The clouds hanging low over the buildings are fat with mist, enveloping the Empire State Building in haze. I walk quickly with no destination in sight, keeping my head low as I push forward into the unknown. My stomach growls plaintively, a stark reminder that I haven’t eaten in more than a day.

  A man’s hand forces a card into my arms before his feet stomp away toward his next unsuspecting victim. I glance down at the gaudy neon pink paper, printed in thick black. A young man’s face stares back at me, completely devoid of emotion.

  Adams Gallery, Midnight, March 15 . The Art of Gemini. 516 West 24th Street.

  I move to chuck the paper in the garbage before my eye catches the next line, obscured by a fat droplet of rain.

  Refreshments provided.

  My stomach rumbles instinctively. While usually the idea of going to some tacky and pretentious art show solely for the free grub made me shudder with embarrassment, in my current situation I can’t afford to be anything other than shameless. Before I can think about it long enough to change my mind, I pull a battered map of the city from the side of my bag, a small token of wishful thinking I had kept hidden in my tiny room, purchased from a second hand book sale at the school library, and locate where I needed to go.

  I figure that if I walk with enough confidence, even with a map in hand and a bulky rucksack weighing me down, I’ll fit right in. I’d chosen New York because it would be the easiest city in the world to get lost in, to become consumed by. I wanted to merge with the crowds and become another face you could pass by once in your life and never see again. I wanted to become invisible. If I could manage that then everything would be okay. It had to be.

  So far, I feel like the ugly duck standing out like a beacon in the darkness.

  Eventually, I find the gallery, yet another foreboding mass of brick and glass that looms over me. Part of me feels as if the city may literally eat me and swallow me down into the depths of hell. Still, it’s a preferable option to other things out to get me.

  Several well dressed figures mingle outside the door, laughing loudly and drinking something fizzy from brandy snifters. For a moment I wonder if this really is the right place, but then I notice one of the group clutching the same pink card I currently held in my own hand, waving it around like some exotic fan while making a point.

  Okay, I tell myself. Just keep your head down, try to look interested in whatever the ‘Art of Gemini’ is, and don’t draw any attention to yourself. Get some food and drink and leave. Then you can...

  I stop and think, only to find my heart racing like a train running full throttle, about to crash in a burst of flame and shrapnel. I take a deep breath, try to pat down my frizzy chestnut hair and stride into the gallery with all the confidence I can muster.

  Inside, the gallery more closely resembles a warehouse, with chipped white and neon concrete walls and a floor splattered with a multitude of colorful paints. The entire world of modern art is foreign to me and just a little absurd.

  People waltz past me, enthusiastically praising the work they see (are the paint splattered walls the art, I ask myself) and I suddenly feel more out of place than I have done in a very long time. I hadn’t had a lot of time in my life for pretty things before. Once again, my stomach protests, more concerned with nourishment than beauty.

  My eyes scan the room until I find what I’m looking for. The relatively simple spread of finger foods is a veritable feast right now. I head straight for it, not caring if I look like a madwoman or freeloader in the process. Luckily for me, another patron of this art show seems to be here for similar reasons. We share an amused look as we both stuff our faces with shrimp wrapped in bacon, tiny little potatoes with chives, crackers smothered in mozzarella and prosciutto.

  The room fills slowly with aging women in black, their less interested companions, younger people dressed in a variety of rundown clothes, and men in suits clutching smart phones with no care to their surrounds. The low drone of voices fills the stark white space.

  There is no art on the walls and no sign of what might be the art unless chipped paint counts. And, to be honest, I couldn’t care less. My stomach rages for more and I’m only happy to oblige i
t. I realize that I haven’t eaten in over a day and I don’t know when I’ll be eating again after this, so I’m determined to gorge myself on this free meal. I barely notice when the chatter in the room falls to a hush. It’s only when my buffet companion stops eating and looks up with amazement that I turn around to see what all the fuss is about. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that stood before me.

  A man shuffles into sight from behind a pillar. His head is down but I can still see his striking face, frozen in a pensive expression. Exotic tattoos cover his forearms and torso. He’s tall, gorgeous and completely naked.

  And his eyes are on me.

  CHAPTER 2.

  With food spilling from my mouth, I can do nothing except watch the man in his full glory. And let’s face it, his full glory? It is a sight to see.

  My lips stop smacking together around a cracker as he steps forward into the silence. The quiet around me has become palpable with tension. The lights dim slowly and pulsating music erupts from hidden speakers. I forget to chew my food. It’s hard when you’re eye level with a man’s naked twig and berries dangling like Christmas ornaments.

  I have never seen a naked man before. Or a naked anyone besides myself. My dad didn’t even let me go to the little class they offered in middle school about the human body, saying it would rot my mind. My only experience with human sexuality was a giggling classmate reading aloud a sex scene from a novel and a little diagram of the male physique in the form of a crude line drawing tucked in my biology book in high school. When my dad found me ogling it, he ripped the page out and...

  Bad memory bad memory bad memory, I think until the moment passes.

  By now, the man is only a few feet away, moving closer to me slowly, more deliberate in his motions. He’s an animal stalking his prey in the form of a lonely girl, lost in the grass of people. Quietly, his feet rise in long, graceful steps before finding the ground once more. Eyes turn to me. The music, sexualized and heavy with bass, grows into a fever pitch as the man stops. I shiver and wither back. I’m not even looking at his face. Our first introduction is my lips uncomfortably level with his penis while a hundred people watch with bated breath.

  My impromptu meal heaves deep within my gut, but I slam my hand over my mouth just in time. I avert my eyes only to find his above my head. His lips are stone, but his eyes gleam with amusement.

  I must look ridiculous, gawking at this achingly gorgeous man like a spectator at the circus, but I can’t stop myself. Around me, I can hear mumbles of discussion and at least one person giggling. Great, because I needed more humiliation in my life.

  I try to look elsewhere, but he’s so close to me that his perfectly sculpted and decorated body is all I can see. He slowly bends down until his face is level with mine and his aquamarine eyes are so close to my own that I can see each individual eyelash.

  His hands trail across my arms, close but never quite touching me, and make their way to my hair. I can feel his fingers graze flyaway strands of my hair, making me quake involuntarily. I remember to swallow the food in my mouth, now just a tasteless mush.

  He moves in closer (how is that even possible?) until his mouth is hovering over my hand, still clasped to my face. His steady breathing across my skin causes me to break into goose bumps. Still, he doesn’t touch me. His body is as close to mine as it can possibly be without actually making contact, and yet it’s far more intimate than I could possibly imagine. Soon, I can no longer hear the music or the gossip of the crowd around me. His breaths and the hammering of my heart are all there is.

  I do my best not to make even the slightest of movements in case I accidentally brush against him and ruin whatever this is between us. I remain frozen in my position as he sinks to his knees in front of me. His hands drift across my jeans and he motions his head toward me like a puppy eager for attention. I look toward the bystanders for some help or advice on what the hell I’m supposed to do next. They’re no help. All of them seem engrossed in this performance I’ve found myself an unwilling participant in.

  If this is art, I tell myself, then I’m not sure I’m a fan.

  Suddenly, the music stops and the lights are turned back on, the harsh brightness making my eyes water. The figure at my feet remains nonplussed by the abrupt change in mood and continues to stare at me. His eyes are wide and impossibly bright and they never break contact with my gaze as he gently curls into a ball at my feet. He lies there, still staring up at me, looking so wounded and vulnerable. I feel an overwhelming urge to touch him, to hug him, to do anything that will comfort him. Eventually, he closes his eyes and lets his head lop onto the hard floor, where he lies close to me.

  I draw my feet backward and whimper slightly. Confusion settles over my face, already flustered with embarrassment.

  And then he goes to sleep, or at least pretends do. His chest and the colorful tattoos that cover it heave up and down slowly.

  For a few moments that seem to last an age, there is silence, and then the crowd breaks into a rapturous applause. I look around, even more confused, more bewildered by the display.

  Art. I don’t get it. At all.

  The naked man leaps to his feet, his private parts once again a little too close for comfort, and takes a bow beside me. He leans down and places a quick peck on my cheek before casually walking toward a small group of women who applauded in a particularly enthusiastic manner. Behind me, the man who had been enjoying the free food with me before the entire show began pats me on the shoulder sympathetically.

  What the hell was that? I ask myself.

  I’ve grown used to dealing with situations far beyond my level of maturity and understanding over the years, but this one really can’t be beaten in terms of sheer bizarreness. Maybe now would be the best time to leave. I have no idea where I’ll go, but it couldn’t possibly get any stranger or more embarrassing than this.

  Before I can make my way to the exit, a woman dressed in hot pink and black grabs my arm. Her perfectly cut long black bob haircut looks stunning against her dark skin, accentuated with flourishes of gold and green eye shadow and candy pink lip-gloss.

  “Hey, there’s no need to run off now, honey,” she says with a warm smile. “You did great.”

  I struggle to find the words to form a coherent reply and end up mumbling under my breath. At least she looks understanding.

  “Is this your first time at one of his shows?” she asks. When I nod, she adds, “It’s not exactly the most comfortable position to find yourself in, is it? Don’t worry about it; you’re not the first to go through it and you probably won’t be the last.”

  I stare at her in confusion. My eyes still see tiny little flashes of penises and testicles attached to rippling muscle and tattoos. I barely remember his face. As long as I live, I worry that it will haunt my nightmares - or my fantasies.

  “You okay?” she questions.

  I nod again. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I insist, finally able to communicate like a normal human being. “I just... This wasn’t what I expected to happen when I came to an art gallery.”

  “Usually I love those kind of surprises, but yeah, this isn’t quite Van Gogh.”

  “Van who?” I say.

  The woman ignores me. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh, Marina.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Marina. I’m Viridian and I think you deserve a drink.”

  “That’s okay. I think it would be best if I just...”

  “Come on,” she interrupts me. “It’s the least I can do. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Before I can protest further, she drags me back through the crowds. People smile at me and congratulate me for my “stunning performance.” I mumble back quiet thank yous, unsure of what else I can possibly say. I would hardly call my display of slack jawed idiocy a performance, but it seemed best to not point that out. Viridian (what kind of name is Viridian?) shoves a glass of what I assume to be champagne into my hand and pulls me toward a familiar face.

/>   Oh no, not him. Anyone but him, please, merciful God.

  CHAPTER 3.

  The artist, thankfully clothed in tight fitting jeans and a v-necked t-shirt that shows off an intricate tattoo on his collarbone, recognizes my burning red face and extends a hand toward me. I hesitate for a few moments before shaking it quickly and taking a large gulp of champagne. The taste is sharp in my mouth and makes my lips purse. I’m not used to alcohol, having deliberately avoided it for most of my life (along with the punishment that would accompany even one sip), but now seems like the perfect moment for some Dutch courage.

  “So this is my glamorous assistant,” he says with a smirk.

  “Fitz, this is Marina,” Viridian says, waving her hands at the pair of us. “She’s never been to any of your shows before, so I think you owe her an apology for scaring the shit out of her. The reaction on her face with the food… Priceless!”

  “Do I?” Fitz asks, looking very amused. “I’ve never had any complaints before.”

  I can feel my face burn. It was already a very lovely flush of scarlet but now I wondered if it would ever return to its original shade - pale, lifeless, doll-like. I take another sip and pull at my jacket with my free hand. Anything to keep me from fidgeting like a child.

  “Cool your jets,” Viridian laughed. “Just ignore him. Fitz has an ego the size of the Chrysler Building, not at all helped by all the fawning these yuppies and art school kids do.”

  “It’s not my fault that a significant portion of the city’s population has such discerning taste.”

  “Oh god, it’s never-ending with you. Hmm, my glass seems to be empty. Give me a second. Don’t run off, Marina, okay?”

  Before I can respond, Viridian is dashing off to mingle with other colorfully dressed patrons. Fitz and I stand together in awkward silence. I tap my toe anxiously against the ground. He looks me up and down like I’m on display to the public (well, I guess I was in a fashion, thanks to him), and I quickly feel very self-conscious in my well-worn duffle-coat and faded jeans. My entire ensemble couldn’t scream ‘tourist’ any louder if it tried. A blush blooms over my face, but it isn’t just because of embarrassment. It’s just as much attraction.