Of course I remember her. It would be close to impossible to forget the things that woman could do with her mouth. However, the memory does nothing for me. My fingers hovering on the screen, I’m about to tell him to forget about it when I realize that Blaire is probably going to fuck Lawrence at some point tonight, if she isn’t already. Gripping my phone tighter, my knuckles turn white as the thought of Blaire and Lawrence together fills my entire being with pure hatred. My mind swirls with memories of us and fabricated images of them as one. I can picture her on her knees riding his cock, moaning like a bitch in heat, her long black hair touching his thighs. She throws her head back, lost in sensation, but not before her traitorous eyes lure him to believe that he’s the one—the only one. And I know this because I was once fool enough to fall under that same spell.
But not anymore—not anymore.
Me: Send me the details. I’ll be there.
I stand outside the gallery, smoking a cigarette, and watch a group of women and men in their early thirties opening the door and going in. Laughter and the buzz of chatter momentarily fill my ears as they walk past me, their expensive perfume lingering in the air after they’ve gone inside. Burying a hand inside my front pocket, I observe them getting swallowed by a sea of people standing on the other side of the floor to ceiling glass windows.
They’re all gathered there with their deep pockets, ready to shell out over a million dollars per painting to celebrate the success of my friend Edgar Juarez—the man of the moment and the new darling of the art scene in New York City. The true American dream. According to a profile written about him in an acclaimed art magazine, he was born in Port Chester, New York, to a single mother, a Mexican immigrant, calling his home the four walls of the one bedroom he shared with her. His mother spent her days cleaning the houses of the rich so she could provide food and shelter for her son, and her nights, her body exhausted and full of calluses, dreaming that he would grow up to be a man with a chance for a bright future.
One day, she had to bring him to work. Edgar went with her, happy for the rare chance to spend more time with his mother. In the living room, he was sketching on a notepad when the lady of the house walked in and saw him and his drawing. A lover of art, she immediately recognized his raw talent, and the rest is history. Now, he makes more money than he ever dreamed of and, most importantly, he makes enough so that his mother doesn’t have to work another day in her life.
I wonder how many of them are here tonight because they truly appreciate his work or because owning an Edgar Juarez is the in thing at the moment in our ever-changing, fickle society. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t change the fact that my friend has arrived and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I’m happy for him, but feel like an intruder. And maybe a small part of me, a part whose voice keeps getting louder and louder, wishes that those people were there for me. That it was my name being celebrated and not his. Maybe if I’d had his success …
I tilt my head back as I blow smoke out of my mouth and stare at the black sky. The moon, serene queen of the night, burns brightly with its white fire that illuminates the dark cottony clouds around her. She’s lovely ruling in her desolate throne yet I can’t help but feel sadness when I stare at her. She’s up there: always a spectator, never a participant. An outsider looking in.
Like I was.
Like I am.
Like I will be.
It seems that all my life, I’ve been looking in from the outside. It never used to bother me. I never wanted more. I was happy, content,
But maybe I’m not being completely honest with myself. I’m changing, and the man I used to be is becoming more of a memory with each day that passes by.
But not anymore—not anymore.
Me: Send me the details. I’ll be there.
I stand outside the gallery, smoking a cigarette, and watch a group of women and men in their early thirties opening the door and going in. Laughter and the buzz of chatter momentarily fill my ears as they walk past me, their expensive perfume lingering in the air after they’ve gone inside. Burying a hand inside my front pocket, I observe them getting swallowed by a sea of people standing on the other side of the floor to ceiling glass windows.
They’re all gathered there with their deep pockets, ready to shell out over a million dollars per painting to celebrate the success of my friend Edgar Juarez—the man of the moment and the new darling of the art scene in New York City. The true American dream. According to a profile written about him in an acclaimed art magazine, he was born in Port Chester, New York, to a single mother, a Mexican immigrant, calling his home the four walls of the one bedroom he shared with her. His mother spent her days cleaning the houses of the rich so she could provide food and shelter for her son, and her nights, her body exhausted and full of calluses, dreaming that he would grow up to be a man with a chance for a bright future.
One day, she had to bring him to work. Edgar went with her, happy for the rare chance to spend more time with his mother. In the living room, he was sketching on a notepad when the lady of the house walked in and saw him and his drawing. A lover of art, she immediately recognized his raw talent, and the rest is history. Now, he makes more money than he ever dreamed of and, most importantly, he makes enough so that his mother doesn’t have to work another day in her life.
I wonder how many of them are here tonight because they truly appreciate his work or because owning an Edgar Juarez is the in thing at the moment in our ever-changing, fickle society. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t change the fact that my friend has arrived and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I’m happy for him, but feel like an intruder. And maybe a small part of me, a part whose voice keeps getting louder and louder, wishes that those people were there for me. That it was my name being celebrated and not his. Maybe if I’d had his success …
I tilt my head back as I blow smoke out of my mouth and stare at the black sky. The moon, serene queen of the night, burns brightly with its white fire that illuminates the dark cottony clouds around her. She’s lovely ruling in her desolate throne yet I can’t help but feel sadness when I stare at her. She’s up there: always a spectator, never a participant. An outsider looking in.
Like I was.
Like I am.
Like I will be.
It seems that all my life, I’ve been looking in from the outside. It never used to bother me. I never wanted more. I was happy, content,
But maybe I’m not being completely honest with myself. I’m changing, and the man I used to be is becoming more of a memory with each day that passes by.
