Sunday, October 5, 2008

Chapter Fourteen

“Let's dance, for fear your grace should fall. Let's dance, for fear tonight is all..” David Bowie

The next few weeks were a blur of studying for finals, and our old-- trouble-making. We were all single, back to the state we had been at the beginning of the year. But it felt more forced. Viv’s antics had gone from wild to almost over the edge. Each night she came closer and closer to falling over the line into “having a problem”. Marie seemed happier than she had in a while, happy we could troll for guys, happy we spent time just us girls again. And I tried to forget Andrew with sex. Lots of sex. I felt guilty and angry at him, so I slept with people for two reasons: because I deserved to be used and to punish Andrew. As soon as we started having sex, I began to hate the boy it was with. I had no tender love making, only rough, impersonal sex. I wanted to be fucked like the dumb whore I was.
“So who are you here with?”
I was talked to an art student with spiky black hair who was holding a Red Stripe beer, and leaning against the bar. I was bored by him, by his typical and inane conversation. I was weary in a way I had never been when I was with Andrew. I pushed thoughts of him out of my mind.
“Just my girlfriends. You know Viv Silverstein, right?”
“Yeah of course, she’s a great artist. She took a course with me at MassArt. Where’s she at?”
“Uhm, over there. I sensed he was losing interest so I went to smoke a cigarette with Marie.
It was a humid, sweaty night and our smoke caught in the fog. The weather made Marie’s hair frizz, creating a blonde halo of ringlets.
“Was being single always this trying?” I asked, “Everything they say seems so banal.”
“Take it easy, Edith Wharton. This isn’t Age of Innocence.”
“Yeah, we’re way passed innocent.” I joked, “Plus House of Mirth is a more appropriate reference. Much crueler.”
“Dork.”
“Skank!” I shot back.
The boy I had been talking to was now viciously making out with Viv, and I didn’t care.
I ended up finding one of Artist Boy’s friends, and we went back to their downtown apartment to cut lines and pretend we had things in common. We had sex in the bathroom, my skirt around my ankle and my leg propped on the toilet. It was clumsy, and awkward. I hated this.
I called the following morning to take my name off the lease of Andrew and my apartment. When the Russian landlady told me he already had, hot tears welled up, and I mumbled an awkward “Thank You.”
“Just live with me in the village.” Marie offered.
“Really?”
“Please, I have my own room and my parents are usually in their studio anyway.”
“And I’ll be at Pratt.” Viv said. She was taking classes and living in the dorms over the summer.
. “Ok. Ok, I will.” I was actually relieved. If I had been alone, in a studio apartment, I would be lost. Without Andrew as my anchor, I felt more dependent on them. I couldn’t fathom walking Brooklyn’s streets alone, imagining dinners I’d be having with Andrew at bistros or concerts we’d go to, all summer long.

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