Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

But unlike Simon, W was in control that whole scene. He didn’t attack me with true intent, with malice to cause harm, so it didn’t count. When Simon attacked me, he did it to hurt me. When W attacked me, he used a condom and didn’t leave bruises. It wasn’t the same.

Was it? Fuck me. I didn’t know.

I was sore the next morning, my heart from emotion and my body from too much orgasming. Light streamed through the hotel curtains, and housekeeping tapped at the door. I got up and dragged home, and let myself into the loft. I heard voices from Simon’s studio, his voice and another girl’s. Someone was smoking.

Rachel.

Rachel was an old friend of Simon’s from Florida. She had a sultry voice and a model’s body, and rainbow-colored highlights on the tips of her dark hair. She chain-smoked in our loft and hung all over Simon at every opportunity because they were friends.

The door to the studio was half open. I peeked in, saw Simon with his brush and canvas, looking animated for once. Rachel was on the couch, sprawled on her back with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She wasn’t wearing a shirt or bra, but that wasn’t unusual for Rachel, who thought the rules of decency didn’t apply to her. Her father was some Miami billionaire so Rachel didn’t work, didn’t do anything that didn’t feel good to her.

Simon and I had argued many times about Rachel. I knew she was the one who had gotten him into drugs, and I hated her for it. He went to a few rich, artsy, hippie festivals with her, and all of a sudden, he was getting high because it made the art “better,” like it was some noble sacrifice he was making. Rachel told me to relax, that Simon wasn’t half as bad as some of the people she knew.

Was that supposed to make everything okay? Ugh, I hated her. During one of our arguments, I accused Simon of sleeping with her behind my back. He sneered at me. “One, you sleep with tons of guys. Two, there’s more to life than sex. I know that’s hard for you to understand, considering what you do for a living. And three, we grew up together. I mean, ugh. Incest. She’s like my fucking sister.”

But he wasn’t looking at her like a sister right now.

That smile of his used to be for me. That intent gaze, that expression of inspiration. I pushed the door open and stalked in. “Hey, Simon. Hey, Rachel.”

“Chere!” Simon exclaimed, like he was happy to see me. He was always happy with Rachel around. Rachel gave me a bitch look, and waved at me like that somehow erased the bitchiness.

“Look.” Simon gestured to the rainbow colored canvas before him. It reminded me of her hair. “What do you think? Rachel finally agreed to model for me.”

I used to model for you. I used to inspire you. Not to be nasty, but the pieces you painted of me sold for a lot of money. This one looked like a piece of carnival art. I supposed it was for his upcoming show, if it even happened. I had my doubts.

“It looks great,” I said with fake enthusiasm. I looked from the canvas to Rachel, and then back at the canvas. I never understood why he needed models, when nothing he created ever looked like any of those models. I never understood why he needed the drugs, when his own talent and imagination used to be enough.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I said.

“Hey, where were you last night?” he called out when I was almost to the door.

I turned. “At the Empire Hotel. The client said I could stay if I wanted, and it had a nice view.”

Rachel tittered, even though I didn’t think I’d said anything amusing. I could have said more, like that I felt more relaxed when I stayed at a hotel. That the lack of clutter and cigarette smoke and color-vomit canvases helped me sleep better.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

I went into our bedroom. The bed was still made. It was very possible that Simon and Rachel had been up all night, partying, club-crawling, dancing, and then coming home to make “art.” Our clothes were piling up in the corner. I needed to do laundry. Later. I’d face that later.

I took out W’s poetry instead, and searched the first couple of lines on my phone. Choice, by Angela Morgan, a little known American poet born in the late 19th century.

Her work was wistful, kind of sad. I smoothed out the paper, studying his writing, trying to remember the expression on his face when he put down the pen. Was he insinuating something about me by choosing this poem? Or insinuating something about him? Or neither of us?