The clock continues to tick down, counting the hours until my imminent misery, when the sunrise brings with it that headache I can already feel trekking in through my ears and setting up house - pounding little hammers and ice-cold needles for nails into that chilled gray mist turning my mind into a hazardous highway.

The fog lights cast their rays on memories down backroads and alcoves it’s too dangerous and too dark to be exploring alone, at this time of the night.

*

If there was only one moment of my 3 years with Etan that I could go back and undo, it would be the day he met Kattar.

I could tell he was opposed to the idea from the moment I brought it up, but neither one of us was mature enough to say something and talk it out. He brooded on the outside, in silent, seething indignation, waiting for me to concede to his whims, and I ignored it.

Etan drove me to the gallery - Kattar had work in the morning, so we - I - made plans for him to meet us there at twelve o’clock (p.m.) sharp. When Etan first laid eyes on him, standing by the hand-me-down hot rod in his faux-leather jacket - hair slicked back all ‘West Side Story,” he looked about ready to pick me up by the back of the collar, turn around, and go back to the car. I’d seen his eyes burn with disdain, almost hatred, a thousand times if I had once, but this look was blacker than any of those. 

For his part, Kattar never even flinched, as Etan tried to glare him out of existence. They locked eyes for a fraction of a second, and Kattar, reading the obvious challenge in my boyfriend’s posture, sized him up as casually as if he was studying a menu, and then looked at me as if to say, ‘Really?’

I hated him so much right then.

My grandmother on my father’s side liked to make up her own adages, as a joke between us grandkids and her. I was probably about 4 years old when she died, but still, I remember sitting on her lap, sticking my chubby fingers into her mouth as she instructed us with mock severity to repeat her sayings any time it seemed fitting so that everyone would believe that Navajos “just talked like that.” Her personal favorite was the morbid one-liner ‘Two living men never slept under the same roof.’ “It’s not a proverb,” she would say, “but it’s true as gospel.”

Maybe at other times, during different circumstances, there could have been a boyfriend and a guy friend in the mix at the same time without turmoil, but anyone with half a brain could see that that would never be the case between Etan and me. His fury screamed so obviously all the thoughts he imagined he could keep me from seeing if he kept his shoulders squared and stared down his nose - but I could discern them as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

Kattar was - still is - far too handsome to be friends with any girl with a boyfriend, and even Etan could see that.

Etan was practically a model himself - almost anyone would have assented on that point if driven into a corner, but there was something about the expression in his dark eyes and the tilt of his chin that made most folks want to deny it. He had a delicate cut to his features - the sort of beau ideal, cover-boy of all cover-boys beauty that had somehow come to be considered a universal standard. He bore a striking resemblance to the wax works by the door, but I barely noticed much of anything displayed in the gallery.

I think I was more miserable than either of them, and it was only made worse by Kattar’s manifest efforts to pull me out of my slump - pointing out every painting and sculpture he knew would have completely captivated me at any time other than that one. Meanwhile, Etan scoffed at his ‘poor taste.’

To his credit, Kattar basically ignored Etan - the few times my boyfriend attempted a jab of any kind, Kattar shook his head and laughed it off, or pretended not to hear it altogether.

The primary weapon in Etan’s arsenal that he used to grate against Kattar, was the fact that he ‘knew art.’ He could explain the aspects of the symmetry, shadow, and contrast, and how details were echoed throughout landscapes, giving the piece a sense of completion. 

Kattar’s primary weapon, he didn't even seem to realize, came from the way he called me ‘Lise.’

They continued abrading each other’s egos with these microaggressions until about 2 p.m., when Etan, fed up and hungry, suggested we head to the cafeteria. We were in the Precioso Vegerra Tribute Gallery at the time, and Kattar who didn’t hear, or didn’t want to acknowledge him, pointed out the strangest creation I’ve ever seen to this day - an oil pastel on glass titled ‘Muse in the Fire.’ 

It looked as if it had been scrubbed onto a window pane - messy crayon-ish streaks blended into a textured, spotty wash of color with the illusion of flames and warmth, shivering, and shimmering with impressionist light. It was the first thing that had actually managed to excite me since we arrived, and for a minute I forgot about the tension strung up like tripwires on every side.

“It’s halfway between dazzling and dizzying,” I breathed, making my way closer to the glass. “You can almost hear the fire crackling, and the glass has these ridges and vales, sort of like like heat waves…” 

“Alicia, can we go now…?” Etan asked impatiently, tapping his foot, arms crossed.

“Okay, just one second. Let me get a picture first,” I pulled out my phone and fumbled awkwardly with the angles, trying to get the image to become clear, but I couldn’t bring the lens into focus.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Exasperated, Etan took the phone from my hand and slid me to the side, a little less than gently. “You’ll make us be here all day. Let me do it.”

I burned with embarrassment. Not because of how Etan had talked to me but because I wished he hadn’t done it in front of Kattar - because I felt the judgment, that same ‘Really,’ in the way Kattar smoldered, crossing his arms, and cut eyes at me as if to say, ‘say something.’

Etan knelt in front of the glass, adjusting the angle until the photograph came through clearly - realer than life - catching the light and setting the redness ablaze.

As he rose from his crouched position and handed me back my phone he and Kattar locked eyes - Etan annoyed, and Kattar, almost fuming and red up to the roots of his hair.

“Don’t talk to Lise like that” he said steadily, with a tone that made it clear that it wasn’t a suggestion, “and keep your hands off her.”

Like two beautiful, ugly mirrors, Etan turned as red as Kattar, and quickly put his arm around my shoulder, making me stagger, off balance, and replied venomously:

“If my girlfriend has a problem with me, she can say something. We don’t need you to mind our business.”

Stung.

Kattars eyes-

*

As if someone lit the bed on fire, I hurry out of the tangled blankets, and make my way barefoot through the dark, down the stairs, fingertips barely lighting on the banisters, and gliding hellward like a figure skater on mahogany ice.

I turn on a dim, fluorescent lamp, and remove the shade, letting the full light shine on this corner of the messy living room. The easel is where I left it, and I pull a clean canvas from its place next to the paint-mottled throw pillow and roll up the sleeves of my pajamas.

Too lazy to pull out the brushes and water, I force the acrylics from their tubes and dip my fingers into the primaries without blending, without proper preparations - I poke my fury into the face of the empty white and streak and smear my fingerprints across the blank space in an ugly puke-ish hurricane of color. 

Lines become scalloped rainbow waves in the blurry blue-yellow tempest. I paint a red mouth with a tainted, toothy grin where the canines glow yellow, like a lion-ish clown. The eyes stare out at me blankly, and I know they should be fire, bitter with passion, and judgment, judging me. 

Blue streaks become feathers and the feathers smear blue with red into lavender-violet at the ends, a yellow cat face, ruddy with muddy red patching its visage like graffiti, or paint swatches of the most basic shades - brilliantly commonplace, and not special. Not special at all.

The lion with its feathered mane stares me down with that same expression that haunts me, and the voice, says dryly, “Fair enough.”

The worst part is the way he tried not to swallow - not to let Etan see that lump in his throat. 

It was true. I could speak for myself. I never would - but I could, and I should have.

I take my index finger and twirl two dots of paint into an un-homogenous green - draw two aquamarine streets unequally streaked with shades of seafoam and mint down the lion’s face, pooling at the base of his strong jaw.

I know he was crying, on the inside, for me. He wanted to tell me to run - but it was too late for that.