The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  Then the uncomfortable feeling of being watched settles over me until I shoot upright.

  “Well good morning, sleepyhead.”

  I clutch the sheet to my body as the man stares at me. In one hand is a cup of coffee still steaming in the chilly March air. Even inside, I can feel the prickles of cold creeping up the back of my neck, setting my hair on end.

  “Who the hell are you?” I gasp.

  “Fitz dear,” the man calls in a high pitched feminine voice. “Your sleeping beauty has awoken and demands her prince.”

  My head throbs once again with his screeching. I pinch my eyes closed and sink backward into the sofa. “Do you have to scream like that?”

  The door to the bathroom swings open. Fitz is there, once again wearing nothing but the skin his parents gave him. He runs a towel over his messy hair while steam pours out around him.

  “Derek, I don’t think she knows about your type,” Fitz mutters from across the room.

  “What type is that?” the man, Derek, asks. He spins around in his chair, lifting his hand accusingly. “Stereotypical, flamboyant man? I am sorry that the world made me the way I am, Fitz. How many times must I say this?”

  “Gay period would work in this case,” Fitz says. He pours himself a cup of coffee and drains it in three swallows. “Our friend Marina here is from the wilds of... You never told me where you were from, did you?”

  “I’d pretend to be shocked at this but it’s hardly the first time you’ve picked up a stray and not known anything about them. At least this one doesn’t so obviously look like a serial killer or kleptomaniac. So, where are you from?”

  I contemplate lying, but the truth always finds a way to escape from my mouth. “Spokane.”

  “Where is that? Like Idaho or something?” Fitz asks.

  “Washington,” I reply.

  “Is that near Seattle?” Derek sips his coffee, tossing back his head and sending a spray of dark blond hair back from his forehead. “My ex is from there, the asshole. He cheated on me with this guy that wasn’t even cute.”

  “And I doubt she cares,” Fitz says. “Just ignore him, Marina. He thinks he’s the most interesting person in the world.”

  The truth is that I, too, am fascinated with this man. He stands up and stalks back toward the kitchen, walking quickly on his long, thin legs. There is a family resemblance between the two. Maybe not brothers, but cousins?

  I let the blanket drop when I realize I’m still wearing my clothes from the night before. The t-shirt is wrinkled and the pants stiff, but I’m fully clothed. My hair is a knot at the top of my head. I am completely, 100% decent, facing a man comfortable with his nudity and a second who is still raving about his ex-boyfriend, a man apparently named Jesus who was no relation to the Biblical figure but looked the part.

  “Marina?”

  I jerk my eyes up, realizing that Fitz is speaking to me. “Yes?”

  “So are you going to get a job in town?”

  The furthest ahead I had planned was just getting here. Of course I would need a job, but proper employment is an area I have absolutely no experience in. I glance down and bite my lip in surprise that he’d even asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” I say, feeling a touch embarrassed. “I’ve never worked before besides cooking and cleaning for my dad, and he didn’t pay me or anything.”

  “What about waiting tables?”

  “Like at Olive Garden?”

  Derek rolls his eyes and bursts into laughter. “Poor little country girl lost in the big city,” he tells Fitz. “I should have guessed it. She looks the part, all lost and scared. I mean, it doesn’t help that you’re completely naked.”

  Fitz eyes him suspiciously while pouring a second cup of coffee. I have no idea how someone can be so comfortable with their body that they would waltz around naked, in private and in public. Then again, Fitz’s body is sculpted to perfection while I couldn’t be further from that.

  The silence becomes uneasy as Derek sips casually and Fitz drains his second cup, and then a third. I fidget nervously, glancing back at the window behind me, surveying the busy street below. Eventually, it becomes too hard to take.

  “Can I use the restroom?”

  I don’t wait for an answer before I take off into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. The room is still damp and hot from Fitz’s shower. After taking care of business, I mess with my hair only to notice my overall appearance. I’m still flushed with embarrassment. Across my chin I see the smatterings of acne bursting forth like geysers of disgusting pus. I rip the tie out of my hair and let the humidity-fueled curls fray about my face, falling over my shoulders into a thousand split ends.

  I am the opposite of beautiful and sophisticated like those women at the show last night. I am a pudgy, nervous, pasty-faced nobody. It’s the expensive hair cream all in French in the medicine cabinet beside the aspirin that tells me that.

  “Alive in there?” Derek calls.

  Quickly draining two aspirin with a gulp of water, I put the medicine back up and hurry out. A cup of coffee is thrust into my nervous hands.

  “If you want a job, I can call in a favor,” Fitz says from the living room. Gone are the blankets, but in their place he sits, thankfully wearing pants. “Least I can do for the unwitting victim of my show.”

  I snort. “I would have thought that giving me a place to stay was more than enough,” I tell him. “Especially considering that I might be a serial killer. I could kill you both right now and I could get away with it because nobody ever suspects girls like me.”

  “But the security cameras all over this block don’t lie,” Derek quips. “Just take the damn job, girl. Ten hour days and you’ll be berated, but waiting tables pays the bills if you keep your life cheap. Trust me.”

  “And how would you know?” Fitz asks.

  “Oh, shut up, freak,” Derek replies.

  “I’ll do it,” I burst out before I think better of it. I settle back on my heels like a frightened child. “I mean, I want to stay in the city for awhile. I don’t have anything left at home. I want to start a new life here.”

  Derek snorts. “I was beginning to think you were here to be a prostitute. Those girls can make some mone-”

  “Derek, shut the fuck up,” Fitz says.

  He looks to me with that quirky little smile. The look in his eyes is almost devilish.

  “Can you start tonight?”

  CHAPTER 5.

  I try to rub down the creases in my white blouse and black trousers as I wait for Fitz to introduce me to my new boss. These are the only vaguely smart clothes I brought with me, having chosen warmth and practicality over style. A long-sleeved and somewhat homely red dress I’d made for myself sat somewhere at the bottom of my jam-packed rucksack, but I didn’t think it would quite be suitable for whatever this job Fitz had gotten for me entailed.

  My attempts to look professional and enthusiastic for work hadn’t gotten off to the best start.

  Not only am I sorely lacking in the fashion department, but my hair refuses to be tamed by countless pulls of the brush through it. On top of that, my spotty face seems stuck on blush mode thanks to my new roommate’s inability to put on a shirt. It isn’t the worst sight in the world to live with, but my uncontrollable reactions to Fitz’s shamelessness leave me feeling constantly mortified. He seems to find it all incredibly funny, as does Derek, much to my humiliation, although his laughter is never cruel.

  During the day, I had remained in Fitz’s place with him and his friend (Cousin? Assistant? Butler? Best friend?) as they discussed all manner of things, but mainly focusing on his art. By the sound of it, half of the New York City art scene enjoyed blatant voyeurism and nightmare-haunting images like the picture on the wall still covered in a white sheet. While I’m no pearl-clutching, wilting flower (I’ve seen far too much darkness throughout my life for that), I just can’t understand Fitz’s world, although I very deeply want to.

  I take in my surroundings. I�
�ve never seen a cafe quite like this one. The walls are every color imaginable, many of them decorated with fairy lights, stylized paintings of famous faces I vaguely recognize, and shelves packed with countless little oddities, like plastic lilies, golden Buddhas and beautifully dressed china dolls.

  The time has just passed 9pm and the place is full with loudly chatting customers guzzling down their food and drinks with gusto. It is a Saturday night, after all, although I’m not particularly keen on alcohol right now, having learned my lesson from the previous evening’s shenanigans. I’d thrown up twice after settling into the routine of the day - sitting on the couch staring at the two guys as they chatted incessantly.

  I wonder for a moment if Fitz has forgotten about me, but I quickly spot him coming from across the room. He’s accompanied by a pleasantly plump woman with her ash blonde hair piled in a bun on top of her head, and a candy striped apron tied around her waist.

  “See,” Fitz says, waving his arms at me. “She even looks the part. Actually, I’d say she’s more presentable than half the people you employ. No offense or anything, but this one is cute, innocent, wife-like.”

  I resent that, I think.

  “Yes,” the woman says, looking me up and down. I force down the urge to fidget. “What kind of experience do you have?” She asks me.

  “Uh... General domestic work,” I reply. Technically it’s true and it sounds far better than ‘housewife to my dad’. “Lots of cooking, cleaning, sewing...”

  “I doubt you’ll be doing much sewing here,” she interrupts me with a smile. “But it’s good to know. You a quick learner?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ever call me ma’am again, okay?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble back. Dammit, and it had been going so well.

  “Come on, Rachel,” Fitz says, patting the woman on the back. “You do owe me big time. Just think of all the things I could be asking for with my payback. This is pretty tame by my standards.”

  “Do you even know the surname of this new friend of yours?” Rachel asks. By the sound of it, she had had to put up with a lot of strange company thanks to Fitz. I wonder what that makes me.

  “Of course I do. It’s Phillips!” He announces proudly.

  “One ‘l’ or two?”

  “Two,” he fires back. Rachel looks to me for confirmation and I quickly nod. It’s a lucky guess on his part. I just hope she doesn’t ask me to give his surname.

  “Look, Marina is it? I’m sure you’re lovely and I mean no offense here, but I can’t just hire some stranger Fitz has picked up from God knows where after knowing them for the grand total of 24 hours.”

  “Actually, it’s been less than 24 hours,” Fitz corrects her as he pulls his cell-phone from his jacket pocket. “By my calculations, I’d say it’s been about 21 hours or so. Maybe a little less if you want to go by the more conventional introductions.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Rachel says, wincing. “Did he drag you into one of his performances?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling strangely apologetic, leaving out the part where I’d entered voluntarily thanks to my stomach.

  “Which one was it? The one with the magic markers or the bearskin rug?”

  “Uh, neither. He was naked and came toward me so he could...” I try to finish my thoughts with hand gestures, not entirely sure how to describe Fitz’s performance.

  “That really doesn’t narrow it down, sweetie,” Rachel adds. “Be more specific.”

  Fitz looks rather proud of himself at that moment in time. I wonder if any of his performances involve wearing clothes and make a mental note to buy him a nice sweater once I get some money. Maybe I could even knit him one.

  Wait until you actually get a job first, Marina, I remind myself. Right now, this woman doesn’t look particularly impressed.

  “Essentially, it was like a lap-dance,” I spit out. “One without any touching. And then he fell asleep at my feet.”

  “Ah.”

  Suddenly Rachel understands exactly what I’m talking about and looks very sympathetic.

  “I remember the days when you used to paint pictures of yourself, Fitz.”

  “Yeah. Boring as shit, weren’t they?” Fitz grins madly and winks. I can’t help but smile myself. Rachel pauses and thinks for a few seconds, her face twisted in a pensive expression. Eventually, she sighs and pulls a notepad from her apron pocket.

  “Okay, let’s give this a shot,” she says. I share a smile of relief with Fitz. Finally, something is going right in my life. It may only be a minimum wage waitressing job, but to me it’s like becoming President. Hopefully in a few months time, with enough hard work and sheer dumb luck, I can be independent and free to live the life I have always dreamed of.

  “Thank you so much,” I say, close to gushing.

  “Yeah, thanks Rach,” Fitz adds with a burst of enthusiasm. “You won’t regret this. I know you’ve ended up regretting a lot of favors I’ve asked of you, but I swear you won’t regret this one.”

  “Stop talking before I change my mind, Fitz.”

  “Fine, cranky,” Fitz murmurs.

  Rachel turns to me, her mouth morphing into a frown. “Marina, this is technically a trial period, so just give it all you’ve got. I’m going to stick you with one of our other waiters and you can shadow them tonight, just to get your bearings. You’ll probably be made to do the grunt work for a while though, just a warning.”

  I quickly nod like a happy camper, forcing a smile. I can feel the worry and nerves deep in my chest bubbling up my throat.

  “That’s fine with me. I’ll do whatever you want me to, no questions asked.”

  “Careful there. People around here tend to take statements like that pretty seriously. I’m looking at you, Fitz.”

  Someone calls out Rachel’s name from the bar.

  “Give me a moment to sort this out, then I’ll come back and get you and we can begin, okay? It’s going to be a very busy night.”

  She dashes away, leaving me with Fitz, whose smile is warm and strangely proud. I’m so grateful for everything he’s done. I’ve known him for all of a day (even less than that, if his calculations are correct) and yet he’s already set me up with a temporary roof over my head and the promise of a steady paycheck, just what I need to establish myself in my new home. It didn’t feel like home yet, but then again, Spokane never truly felt like home. The word “home” suggested love, security, a sanctuary to return to in troubled times. The cramped old houses we’d flitted between for the past twenty years of my life had been nothing but trouble.

  “See,” Fitz says, bringing his hand up to my arm. “You’ll be fine. Rachel can be tough, but she’ll steer you in the right direction.”

  “Thank you, Fitz. I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to me. I really don’t deserve all this.”

  “Hey, what did I say about all that noble guilt crap? No time for it!”

  His thumb strokes rhythmic circles on my upper arm and my mind instantly fills with images of his unclothed form against me. I want to fall into his touch. I want to count his tattoos and trace the outlines with my fingers.

  “There’s no need to look so scared, Marina,” he tells me. “I promise you that you’ll be okay here.”

  For some reason, I trust him when he says that.

  “Why are you doing all this for me?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer, but I can’t stop myself from asking the question. Such unexpected and genuine kindness is new to me and my first instinct is still to run away from it. “You’re being so kind to a complete stranger. You know nothing about me and yet you’re giving me so much. I don’t get it.”

  His other arm reaches up and rests on my shoulder. I wonder how long the pair of us can stand together like this in the middle of the cafe, undisturbed by the crowds and in our own little world. His hand comes up to my face to push away a strand of hair and rests there, his fingers curling around my head.

  “You don’t take c
ompliments very easily, do you?” He says, matter-of-factly. “We all need help sometimes. It’s not something to be ashamed of. I’m pretty sure you’d do the exact same thing for me if our roles were reversed.”

  That’s very true, but surely that’s true of almost everyone? Very few people are that heartless, although I can certainly name one or two off the top of my head.

  “It’s awful being alone in this city,” he says. His eyes glaze over for a few moments, as if deep in thought. “You need someone. We all do.”

  He knows, I think. He knows what it’s like to be completely and utterly alone. Maybe I have a kindred spirit in this city, after all. His smile quickly returns and his hands pull away from my body. I hold back a whine from the sudden lack of contact.

  “Anyway, I have to go. I’m meeting Derek for drinks and helping him with his next show.”

  “Oh, is he an artist as well?”

  “Well, I guess you could say that.”

  I shudder to think what that really means. He pulls out his cell-phone.

  “Give me your cell number and I’ll come and get you when your shift’s over.”

  “Yeah, I don’t have a cell-phone.”

  He looks at me with shock.

  “Seriously? How the hell have you survived without one? Did modern technology not make it as far as Spokane?”

  I force myself to smile as I remember flinging my old cell-phone out of the window of a speeding train somewhere on the Washington state line as it rang for the seventeenth time.

  “Okay, no problem. Just get Rachel to ring me. She has my number.”

  “Sure. Thanks again.”

  He pulls me into a quick hug before sprinting out the front door. I watch him as he leaves, and I swear I can still feel his touch against my skin. He’s right; it’s terrible to suffer a solitary life without as much as a modicum of comfort. I wouldn’t wish my years of such agony on my worst enemy. Maybe here, I can find true sanctuary.

  “Hey, Marina!” A voice calls out across the crowd. “I’ve got some tables that need clearing!”

  “Yes, Rachel!”