“You can’t keep going like this, Alicia. You’ll die, for real.”

And so?

What if I do?

I’m my mother’s child.

*

I tried to excuse Etan’s volatile nature as the typical ‘artist insanity.’ I tried to make believe he didn’t mean it - that it was just immaturity and outspokenness that made him so abrasive.

Honestly, considering my own chronic instability, I didn’t think I really had a right to complain. 

But that didn’t mean anything - we were TNT.

We’d butted heads a hundred times if we had once - about his art - he got touchy - he would excuse himself - and I shouldn’t bother him while he was in the middle of a project - about petty tastes and insignificant pet peeves - about Kattar.

Especially about Kattar.

I wasn’t blind to the fact that Etan was jealous - that he wanted me to stop hanging out with Kattar. That he compared himself to Kattar. Maybe I appreciated it a little too much. Maybe that was toxic of me - I don’t know.

He was actually nicer - or pretended to be nicer for a few months after Kattar rebuked him at the gallery - but I knew the whole time he was seething - ready to snap at the first mention of “the fabulous Mr. Moon” - as he called him - angry any time I went to hang out with Kattar - though it wasn’t like he was interested in making time for me.

Things reached a head when Callisto commissioned him to make a collection for their summer issue, “Colored Girls Only.”

He had too much of an opinion - he didn’t like the color palette - the man picked faults with the literal rainbow - had the audacity to say the warm tones made it gaudy - “eye cancer.”

Any semblance of civility he’d been able to fake gradually corroded over the weeks and months he spent on that project. It was a big deal - one that would give him a permanent reputation - for good or bad - and he was convinced the red, orange, and yellow shoots would ruin the whole thing.

I gently suggested that the challenge could help him ‘grow’ as an artist - that he should try to make the best of it. That’s what I’d always done - smiling away with a brave face even if there wasn’t much to make any 'best' out of.

Maybe somewhere in my mind, I thought we’d be able to last if I could convince him to change. 

To be a little more like Kattar, maybe.

I could have convinced myself I didn’t mind the way he yelled at me - if Kattar hadn’t spoken to me gently - that the constant deprecation and belittling wasn’t so bad if Kattar hadn’t always told me I was destined to be a legend.

And I might have been content to be in love with Kattar - if Etan hadn’t told me I was beautiful.

It was my bad for wanting both, I guess.

I was so flattered when Etan asked me to be the model for the final shoot in the collection - “Bed of Roses,” the Red Maiden. All the other girls were models - real models - and he had been so picky in choosing them - insisting that everything - EVERYTHING - had to be perfect.

And he still wanted me.

That was enough. For me.

Enough to convince me to force a smile through the discomfort - maybe more than slight discomfort - as he manipulated me like a doll - primping me and posing me like I was a drawing dummy rather than a real person because I ‘wasn’t doing it right.’

I swallowed it. It was ok. It was ok. I knew I wasn’t a professional. Just let him do his thing.

It’ll be alright.

But the impatience gradually mounted into almost aggression, almost hurting me - hurting just a little bit - as he made me turn, change the angle because I stood so ‘awkwardly’ and the shots came out ‘gross.’

It was just the deadline - he was stressed - grabbing me and turning me around- then right again - too far - better angle - lift your chin more - lower your eyes - for heaven’s sake -

I just couldn’t be “perfect.”

He physically pushed my head down until it met the bosom of my red dress, where I lay curled up in the fake flowers, and the tears came into my eyes like tiny needles at the edge of perception, turning the set into a rose-tinted ocean.

“Etan, could I have a second…?”

But he wasn’t having it.

It was the last straw I suppose - and that was my fault - for being heartbroken - for having the nerve to cry when he was on a tight schedule.

“Look, Alicia,” he seethed, with a dragonish air, spitting fire, “I only asked you to model for this shoot because I knew you wanted it. If you’re not going to cooperate I can get a real model.”

It took me a second to even process what he was saying -

I wish I’d had something biting to say back but the words didn’t come until the shoot was over, the drive home was over and he'd left me just inside my front door to grip the knob in an attempt to keep from falling and cry my eyes out like I never wanted to see beauty ever again.

Then I drank Burgundy….too…too many glasses - sitting on the floor still in that pretty red dress with the ruffles and the satin shimmering like red glass dazzled with dew and the tears running down my face onto my neck, and the bodice.

I don’t know when I started painting - first abstractedly - a little faceless woman holding the glass with both hands for dear life staring into a vast deep like it could fill her - drowning the liquid courage with liquid weakness.

I rubbed in scarlet - with a brush - splaying against the canvas into a bloody supernova where there should have been a crisp line - and folded the nova into the elegant ruffles of the skirt spread out around her like a red shadow.

Red passion. Red hatred. Red love, and poisonous red romance with thorns.

I forced her body into being with trembling fingertips like an angry creator goddess, leaving little imprints from rough hands and finger stains along her form - because she was my little muse - I could do to her what I liked - treat her as I liked -

Maybe if I made her hurt enough on the inside of the canvas cage the pain would bleed out of me - be smeared into the ugly burgundy stain onto her bosom - and I made it ugly - wanted it to be ugly - just to fight back - to be imperfect - on purpose - and love it that way -

That’s when Kattar called.

“How was the photoshoot?”

“It…”

Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t a little bit magic. Just from that one word he knew - so he has to know now…

“What happened?”

We talked until it was almost midnight - about the collection - the pretty models - and ‘The Bed of Roses.”

I’ve never been able to make sense of that saying. In my eyes a bed of roses has always looked sharp - the idea of things ‘coming up roses’ - inherently nebulous.

When Kattar hung up I texted him a picture of ‘Damsel in the Red Dress,’ and told him I was thinking about submitting it to The Precioso Veggera Foundation, which was accepting entries for their annual art award.

“I’m just worried that Etan wouldn’t like me to.”

That he would be mad - think I was villanizing him - call me a drama queen.

I wanted to stew in my little pity party and have somebody tell me that was ‘just fine’ but there was just emptiness under my text bubble. I guess Kattar fell asleep - or didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t reply until the following afternoon while I was with Etan, picking which photo from the ‘Bed of Roses’ shoot I was gonna try to paint.

“Who’s ringer is that?” Etan asked when he saw the way I hurried to check the message and then silence my phone.

“Just Kattar,” I made myself say casually, sifting through the fiery squares of paper.

Etan sighed with that jealous air that both bothered and sustained me, “I wish you wouldn’t be calling him all the time.”

“Kattar is just a friend, mi amor,” I said pacifyingly, keeping my eyes glued to the photos.

“Then why do you spend so much time talking to him?” 

Maybe it was something about the tone - harsher than it needed to be when I’d spoken to him so calmly - maybe it was just straw that broke the camel's back.

I’m not exactly sure what possessed me to look him in the eye and say flatly, “Because he listens.”

Etan recoiled at that - like a snake - ready to lunge forward- but in what direction- to say something - but what? - it didn’t matter - I went on - keeping my voice steady.

“You hurt me yesterday, Etan - between all your pushing and prodding - and barking orders. I’m not a mannequin or a dog. I have feelings. I needed you to speak to me kindly. I’m new to this! But you acted like I was a waste of your time - and you didn’t even notice that I was upset. Kattar noticed over a phone call - a phone call Etan!”

Etan shook his head, smiling furiously, indignantly:

“Oh, get over yourself. You should have just said something if you were upset. You’re a grown woman - not five years old - quit acting like a damsel in distress.”

The tears started rolling then, though I was so angry I thought I would explode.

“Oh so now you’re gonna cry?” the snake spit, voice oozing with contempt, “Why don’t you call your pretty prince charming to come save you? And while you’re at it, ask him to drive you home.”

I don’t think I registered what he said until the door closed behind him. Then Vesuvius bubbled up inside me with a violence that could have destroyed half the planet.

I was so angry I really did call Kattar and ask him to come get me - which he did, without even asking for an explanation until we got back to my house.

Then I started venting - ranting and pacing the living room like I was trying to wear trenches through the floor.

“Ugh! He’s so-ughhh!” I practically shrieked, “He thinks he’s so great - so smart - so talented - so special, huh? - what I wouldn’t do to make that creep get on his knees - I’ll make him sorry- I’ll make him sorry…”

Like a neon sign changing shades, the anger switched to misery before I had a chance to stop it - stop the tears -

I didn't want to cry over him - to give him even that-

But in the long run, I think I was crying for me. For the damsel in the red dress who couldn’t save herself from her heartache just longing for…love.

“I’m so tired of this Kat,” I whispered, in almost a whimper.

That was the first time I saw that expression on Kattar’s face - that burning that shone through in his eyes - lips parted - but frozen - almost desperation.

“Do you…want a hug?” 

He wanted me to say no - because he knew…

That’s when I realized he was in love with me. And that just made me angrier.

Idiot.

If he had said something.

If…

If he had admitted he had feelings for me -

If-

If he had gotten over his stupid pride and told me he loved me -

Then I never would have dated Etan.

And it never would have happened.

When he came to pull me out of that sticky darkness I had locked myself up in for 6 weeks after the break up I was just waiting for him to say it - begging him to say it.

But he wouldn’t.

So when he told me that I’d been nominated for the award and that I should go to the ceremony - I refused - told him I wasn’t leaving-

He insisted - but I could resist that.

It was the slip up - the slip of his tongue - that broke my resolve - and infuriated me at the same time-

"So you're just going to stay here, wilting in the dark until your petals melt away?"

So that's the closest I get?

“Fine -"

The closest I get to a compliment, to a confession, to sweet nothings when I just wanted some of that ungrounded, subjective validation.

To know I was beautiful in his eyes-

"-but only if you go with me.”

I pretended it was supposed to be almost a punishment - a curse. If he wouldn’t love me - he had to deal with me - in all my wilted glory-

I was furious with him but didn’t want him to leave. And that just made me angrier - sicker.

I guess in the long run it was more of a punishment than I bargained for - that night I made him promise-

The night Kattar drove me home after Etan’s explosion I didn’t have that kind of strength. The fortitude to insist on anything - like I did then - even in my misery -

I just pretended - because I’m good at that - refused the hug with a forced smile and lied - or told a truth that I didn’t believe yet:

“I’ll be ok. Sorry, I made you listen to my rant…”

“It’s no problem,” he said sincerely, pulling his hair back into an almost ponytail before letting it fall again, still burning beneath the surface, and pale at the same time, “I’ll check in on you later.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it, Kat.”

After he left I sank onto the living room floor, staring blankly at the red-clad damsel on my easel until my eyes blurred red and black and red and red.

I would send it out anyway. Why -? Because I liked it - regardless of what Etan might think of it-

That was what Kattar had told me in his text - even knowing that if Etan did find out about it - he would have flipped even worse than he always did-

I loosed my phone from the folds of my blue jeans and braced myself to send those ill-fated words.

“Etan, we need to talk.”

He replied instantly.

“Let’s not and say we did. I’m out.”

And that should have been sweet relief. 

But it was supposed to be my line.