The Girl in the Painting

The whiskey burns as I take too healthy of a pull.

“Wait…if you’re Bram Bray, then are you Ansel Bray?”

Ah, hell. I bite back the urge to sigh and consider pretending to be deaf too, but my bastard brother answers for me.

“He is, in fact, Ansel Bray.”

I don’t even have to say anything. All it takes is his confirmation to make her start to freak out again.

“Oh my god! I can’t believe… I don’t know… Oh my god… My name is Laura, and I’m such a huge fan…such a huge, huge fan.”

“Well, thank you,” I say sarcastically, and because of the whiskey, it sounds like I actually mean it. “It’s so nice to meet you, Laura.”

Bram reads the bitterness in my voice and punches me in the leg under the table.

“I’m an art major, and you are my biggest inspiration…were my biggest inspiration…” I hear the nervous titter of her throat over the music pounding from the speakers of the bar. “God, I just…I just can’t believe what happened to you. It’s devastating.”

And there it is. The sympathy.

The mood around us takes a nose dive into the place I’ve been swimming all night, and I can practically hear my brother tensing up in anticipation of what I might say. In his defense, though, I have a bit of a track record when it comes to pity.

“Something happened to me?” I ask from behind my aviators.

“Uh…the accident,” she stutters over her words, “…the one that made you go blind…”

“I’m blind?” I question, feigning shock and dismay. “Bram? I’m fucking blind?”

I can’t see her, but I can feel the discomfort vibrating off her body in waves. Staccato breaths and fidgeting heels, the poor woman doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“He’s just kidding,” my brother says on a sigh. “But it was great meeting you,” he adds in an attempt to move her on her merry way. Probably before I get another opportunity to make her uncomfortable.

“Uh…thanks,” she mutters, my sick sense of humor officially knocking the wind out of her fangirl sails. The sound of her heels fades away and takes my brother’s easygoing nature with it.

“Do you have to be such an asshole?” he asks. “She was just trying to be nice, Ans.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m just a little tired of all the sympathy.”

“You’d think, with whiskey on your side, you could manage to, you know, smile and act friendly or something.”

I lift my glass and shake it, the ice clanking around inside. “I think I need a few more of these for that to happen.”

A half-amused, mostly frustrated laugh rings from his lips. “God, you’re such a dick.”

Bingo. I shrug and move the glass to my mouth for another drink.

“I’m curious…” he says, a new lilt challenging the usually genial nature of his voice, and pauses long enough for me to take the bait.

“About what?”

“When’s the last time you got laid?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck off, but suddenly, the fight leaves my lungs in a sigh. “A while.”

Since before the accident, specifically.

“Be honest,” he says. “Who was the last woman?”

“Naomi Phillips.”

“That model?”

“Yeah.” An extremely sex-focused woman who gets some sort of thrill from fucking anyone with a name or status.

She was attractive and horny. I wasn’t blind. And we had some fun.

Before Naomi, there was an up-and-coming actress by the name of Ella.

And before Ella, there was Marissa, a backup guitarist for Bram’s band. It’s probably for the best he remains clueless about that last one…

“How long ago?”

“Over a year.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s some dry spell you’re living over there.”

“Yeah, well, sex isn’t the same when you can’t physically see the woman you’re fucking.”

“Yeah, but you can hear her, you can feel her.”

Instead of a response, I busy myself with another chug of whiskey.

I’d rather drink myself into oblivion than talk to my brother about my sex life.

“You do realize there’s absolutely no need for that long of a dry spell, right?” he patronizes through a laugh. “I mean, we’re in a bar that is practically swimming with women who keep looking over here…at you. You’re the famous Ansel Bray. The sex god, broody artist,” he adds, and his voice is etched with amusement.

Sex god, broody artist? An absurd laugh escapes my throat.

Sure, that might have been my life a year ago, but that’s not my life now.

Now, I’m just the blind guy who doesn’t want to be fucking blind.

“Seriously, Ans. There is no reason for you to have a dry spell.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I don’t want a pity fuck, Bram!” I yell, slamming a hand down on the table and knocking over my glass.

“A pity fuck? You really think these women are looking for a pity fuck?” Bram snorts as he scrambles to pick up the mess I’ve made. Fuck knows, I can’t do it. “Just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you’re not still the same good-looking fuck you were before the accident. Trust me, these women aren’t looking to pity-fuck you. Fuck you and get their name added to your bank account? Sure. But you and I both know, there is no pity involved here.”