*Fiction — May 13, 2021
Models
Loie Fuller dancing, Samuel Joshua Beckett, 1900, Metropolitan Museum of Art
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In the evenings I like to smoke on my balcony while I wait for something to happen. People who are beginning their nights out cut through the alleyway below and chat with purpose on their way to do important things. They wear sporty bathing suit tops and loose pants, with dirty white sneakers that look like they bought them that way. They’re ready to drink. Some stumble, already there. Their fingers click urgent texts while they almost walk into one another. I feel for them. Walking down the street is hard, like playing that arcade game Frogger.
Tonight I’m imagining a conversation with a lover I’ll never see again. He’s not dead. We’ll just never speak again. I don’t know if I could if I wanted to. It’s just a made-up conversation that I fall into sometimes, but I shouldn’t indulge in it. I’m trying to monitor my thoughts the way I was taught by the Next Top Model counsellors at therapy. I call them the Next Top Model counsellors because they look like they love and respect themselves. It shows.
The idea is to come up with two encouraging statements every time a negative thought makes its way in. But I’m so tired, I can’t think of affirmations at such a dizzying rate.
Another thing the models suggest is to say that I love myself in front of a mirror. I sometimes try. I stare into my reflection and attempt to make my eyes look alert and challenging. Not much goes on in my head. No. No. I am anxious. I am neutral. If only there were something to slow down such brilliant thinking, but I can’t do my usual things anymore.
I know I don’t want to be a contestant on a modelling show or a cognitive behavioral therapy counsellor. I just want to look good. The next step towards looking good is dressing like I love and respect myself. I can’t think of any examples of people who dress this way offhand except the models. They wear long dresses and do their hair in curls using a straightening iron. I do mine the same way sometimes. After I finish, I shake my hair upside down so it looks wavy like I don’t care. I’m ambitious when it comes to the way I present myself. No one knows that about me. If I see the models again, I will ask them what this means. I’ve had enough of my smoke so I crush it in the ashtray and I watch every red ember go out.
Even with most of the windows open, I feel hot and lethargic walking through the long hall of my apartment lined with bookshelves with plants on top. One lavender plant is dying. I might water it.
The models told me that staying home reinforces social anxiety so I’m going to go to the party.
In my room, I turn on a small fan that was gifted to me by the former tenant. I pull black clothing from the small closet in the corner: miniskirts, tight dresses, and one short cape. Although I feel a deep appreciation for the items I’ve collected, I must adhere to my new constraint. No black clothes tonight. I choose a lilac t-shirt dress from the back of the closet. I pull on combat boots.
Leaving the house always takes longer than I expect. I have to take a picture of the oven because I’m scared of leaving the stove on. I do this even when I know I haven’t used it. It makes me late for everything. The other day it made me half an hour late to see Ethan and when I arrived he said, “Stop being late.” I don’t know who he thinks he is.
Leaving the house always takes longer than I expect. I have to take a picture of the oven because I’m scared of leaving the stove on. I do this even when I know I haven’t used it. It makes me late for everything. The other day it made me half an hour late to see Ethan and when I arrived he said, “Stop being late.” I don’t know who he thinks he is.
A friend of mine thinks people who listen to music while they walk are afraid to be alone. The music I used to listen to while drinking can be separated into emotional categories. The angry music was played while I was staring at a bottle, about to pour the first drink. The songs were a last resort. I’d concentrate my manic energy on the sounds as if I’d be saved if the music could somehow match my emotional range. But the truth is, I had no range. No emotional maturity. Still don’t.
If I had to go somewhere after the first drink, I would listen to complicated electronic music. I don’t really know enough about it to know what’s good. I consider it an intelligent arrangement of repetitive sounds. I enjoy it. I still listen to it when I want confidence and energy. During my drinking days, this music allowed me to compartmentalize problems I perceived as significant. It allowed me to calm down the way I used to be able to back when I smoked pot, before it made me paranoid.
I often start speed walking without realizing. The music makes me walk fast. The memories get me from one place to another without me noticing how I got there. I’m walking a confident walk.
When I get to the stop, I jump on the streetcar feeling as if the door is going to close on me. I almost fall into a woman who is about my age. She’s holding a small dog. They both look at me expectantly.
“Sorry.”
“It’s totally fine!” She smiles at me like we’re friends now, as if this moment has brought us close. People are always so fucking polite like they need every stranger to like them in order to go on. Combating negative thoughts is beginning to make me feel like I’m talking to myself. I’m sure she’s a good person. I don’t know her life. I feel nothing about it.
I brush past the woman and her dog towards an empty seat, pulling my dress down before I sit because I’m afraid of my bare ass touching anything. I’m wearing a sparkling black thong underneath this t-shirt dress. Maybe my ass has grown and that’s why the dress is riding up. I cut out bread. I cut out pretty much everything. I eat a lot of almonds.
At home, I keep roasted unsalted almonds on my side table in the plastic bag that they come in when you buy them in bulk. I like to bring them everywhere with me in case I feel like I’m about to pass out. I just pop a couple of almonds and I’m set.
One of the last times I felt happy was when I thought I’d finally found two men to sleep with me. I met one of them at the improv group I paid to be in. I was good at the improv exercises. I’m not really surprised because I consider myself to be funny, situationally. It’s a trade-off. I’m not someone who’s good at Twitter jokes, Instagram captions or other things that require one-liners. I cannot write a poem.
One of the last times I felt happy was when I thought I’d finally found two men to sleep with me. I met one of them at the improv group I paid to be in. I was good at the improv exercises. I’m not really surprised because I consider myself to be funny, situationally. It’s a trade-off. I’m not someone who’s good at Twitter jokes, Instagram captions or other things that require one-liners. I cannot write a poem.
Improv guy and I made a plan. I told him I’d invite someone I knew to join us. Then I asked this man I sleep with once a week while we were both sitting upright on his bed with a fan pointing at us. I said, “Ethan, would you fuck me with this guy?” I took my phone out and showed him a picture of me and the improv guy that was taken the night we both graduated from the workshop.
He said, “Sure.”
Then the plan fell through because improv guy texted me to say he’d fallen in love.
I only really think about me. I know I have to fix it, and by that I mean hide the fact that I’m moderately obsessed with myself. At the party, I plan on asking people questions so they’ll think I care about them. And I do, really. I’m trying.
I only really think about me. I know I have to fix it, and by that I mean hide the fact that I’m moderately obsessed with myself. At the party, I plan on asking people questions so they’ll think I care about them. And I do, really. I’m trying.
I have a list of interesting questions to ask in case I get stuck. These conversations will hopefully distract me from imagining one I’ll never have. There are former lovers I imagine conversations with and lovers I don’t imagine anything with. It feels like I’ll always have one big one. One big imagined conversation. I was told by the models that I have feelings of longing. That’s complicated. Maybe hate and longing are the same thing. I’m not skilled enough to use words to describe it but the moments I go back to feel very real to me. The intrusive memories. Some are happy. Some sad. I sometimes go to bed with my face in my pillow whispering: please, come back.
One of the questions I like to ask people is: what did you do today? You can find out all sorts of information about someone by the way they answer that question.
One of the questions I like to ask people is: what did you do today? You can find out all sorts of information about someone by the way they answer that question.
I push my way to the door of the streetcar when it arrives at my stop. The pavement feels soft and bouncy under my combat boots. It’s only a matter of time until the heel that is glued on will fall off again. People stand in lines outside the bars. They’re on their phones making calls and sending texts like it’s their last night on earth. What would I have done if I’d known my last time at the bar would be my last time there drinking? Who did I send texts to? I don’t have to remember that. Everything’s ok. Yes, it’s ok. I slept a lot when I was drinking. I still forget to eat sometimes and I go to bed hungry.
The fastest way to the party is off the main street and through this park illuminated by lampposts that stand just a bit taller than me. It seems like the tops of them have fish tanks injected with bioluminescent creatures that float and bob, impossibly watching the people who come here.
The fastest way to the party is off the main street and through this park illuminated by lampposts that stand just a bit taller than me. It seems like the tops of them have fish tanks injected with bioluminescent creatures that float and bob, impossibly watching the people who come here.
I walk fast.
At the party there are two things that stand out to me. The first being the flamingo lights strung all around the house. I see them as a welcoming gesture. I feel comforted by their dim, pink light. The other thing that stands out to me is a pair of pants.
I don’t like the khaki pants that Ethan is wearing. I head to the other side of the room so I can regroup and focus on appearing fun. My face feels hot. I notice another room where people are standing near a table with snacks. Eventually, if I start to get angry, I’ll have to eat one of the snacks.
This isn’t a crazy party. No one is snorting coke or even drinking hard liquor. Could I find pills? Do I want to? Most people hold craft beers with labels that have pictures of cottages on them; others swish glasses of wine around while they dance to a popular song that seems to bring them joy. I spot one of my friends dancing the way I’d imagine a math professor would, frenetically, with a lack of self-awareness. She beckons me over. Dancing could help me appear fun and free or it could make me look like I am trying really hard to look that way.
“Don’t you go to techno shows every weekend?” Frances asks while she makes space for me to join.
“I don’t dance. I just stand. I haven’t been to one in a while.”
“You have to. It’s a dance party!”
“Is it?”
“It’s a great way to blow off steam.” So are pills.
“I feel shy.”
“You’re not shy!”
“I am now.”
I wish there was a way to spy on Ethan to see if he’s looking at me. I worry he doesn’t want me anymore. That he’s through with it.
“I’ll show you my special dance move,” I say.
“Do it.”
I stick my ass out and sway my hips in a circle. I stare at Frances while I do this without smiling.
“That’s a serious move.”
“I’m trying it out.”
“It’s always so hard to tell if you’re joking.”
“I don’t know if I am.”
“One must understand the rules in order to break them,” I hear from behind me.
“Have you come to dance, Ethan?” Frances asks.
Ethan starts to jump around in a way that detracts from his usual sexiness.
“Nice pants,” I say when he finally stops.
Last time Ethan and I slept together he did something oddly touching. He had his hands around my neck in a way that I like. He did this while watching me with the same neutral-angry expression I’ve been looking up at for long enough now. I felt like I was about to pass out. This happens sometimes. We’ve fucked this way often. We do our best. I kept hitting Ethan’s arm and he didn’t stop. I didn’t want him to. Then I managed to get some air and cried out, “Evan!” It broke the spell of whatever we were doing and then his eyes softened in a way that made me feel alarmed like maybe he cared. He patted me on the head.
“Are these good pants?” He starts smoothing out some wrinkles that formed while he was jumping around.
“No.” I turn and head to the room with the snacks.
The models at therapy told me boredom is my enemy. They didn’t use those exact words. They advised me to reach out to others and to help them when I feel idle and restless because I could slip back into old habits if I’m bored.
In the room with the snacks, there is blue cheese, brie, crackers and some gourmet donuts. There are abandoned glasses filled with warming alcoholic liquids. I’m indifferent to it all. I wouldn’t mind a glass of sparkling, lightly-flavored water. If Ethan truly cared, he would be bringing me one. The fact that he hasn’t done so already is grossly inconsiderate.
I stand by the snack table and pretend to look interested in some of the food. In the other room Ethan sits with Frances. Are they flirting? Do people flirt? Can they teach me?
When I walk over, Ethan is smiling at Frances, who looks up at me without making eye contact. I open my eyes wide in a way I hope makes me look vulnerable yet strong. The models wouldn’t like what I’m thinking. Are they sleeping together? Dating? Do they laugh at me while they hold each other? My body is starting to tense up. There are sad flashcards passing across my mind. I guess the word for it is memories.
Frances’s glass of wine is almost empty. It must have taken her about fifteen minutes to drink it, as it was full when I arrived at this party. Ethan I know has been drinking for a while now. He holds his beer lazily in one hand with his other hand resting on his crossed knee. They’re really leaning into each other, these two.
But maybe I’m imagining it. I don’t trust my thoughts these days. I don’t trust the way I’m perceiving anything and I want to ask the models if I’m dead.
We’ll probably fuck again, Ethan and I. Somehow. Somewhere. I’m just trying to pass the time. Yes, yes. I’m just killing time until I’m happy again. People can do what they want.
The last time I saw the man I’ll never speak to again, he said that he just wanted to hold me. He didn’t want to do the things I’d asked him to or embarrass me in the way that I wanted. He said he just wanted me to see myself the way he saw me. I wish I could ask him what he meant by that.
Maybe Ethan and Frances are fucking with me, or they’ll become lovers and both discard me from their lives. Maybe that’s been their plan all along. I’ll sit on my balcony when I get home tonight. I’ll think of Ethan patting my head. I’ll ask him, “What did you do today?
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 9. View full issue & more.