His eyes wandered where they shouldn’t have.
Benji barely even noticed the poorly produced indie rock dripping out of the bar ceiling speakers anymore, and he had even forgotten how much he hated the peach and crimson lights on the ceiling that were tinting the colors of his paintings on the wall. He couldn’t even continue to fake small talk with his patrons anymore, even if they had come all over the city just to this horrid, useless bar to see his latest work.
He was focused on her now.
Concerned.
Consumed.
Conflicted.
The whiskey slipping down his throat was burning far less than the ache in his chest and hands.
She shouldn’t have worn red. It brought out the faded pink in the curves of her lips; the thin lines of coral in their deeper crevices. Were they always that color? Or was it this peach lighting that was bringing out these rich textures and tones?
While his paintings were tainted – nearly ruined – in this lighting, she had become transformative art; something couldn’t help but stop and admire.
That was dangerous.
Benji swallowed more whiskey, trying to simultaneously drown her out with the alcohol as well as hide his face with the glass. He didn’t want anyone to follow his eyes, to figure out that he was staring at the black lace bra strap hugging the edge of her collarbone, wondering how the combination of her skin and his whiskey might taste if he pulled her into the bathroom and sank his teeth into her shoulder.
Five minutes. That’s all he wanted. Five minutes to indulge in his curiosities.
But there were two major problems. The first was that she was not a woman who could be loved in five minutes. She was a slow burn, a long seduction. She could barely be known in a lifetime, let alone one night. If he had known that at the beginning, he would have paid more attention.
At first, she was bland and predictable. She was simply another patron, saying nothing new, nothing engaging, nothing memorable.
“You’re an inspiration to me,” she had said. “I’m sure you hear that all the time.”
He had. Daily. It irritated him more and more as time went on; thousands of people inspired by someone they didn’t know. That’s why her words hadn’t meant anything to him at the time.
But when he thought about it more, her eyes had a sadness to them when she had first said it. As if she knew the war between them was coming. As if she had known that down the line her so-called “inspiration” would accuse her of being a gold-digger, a fake, and a failed artist.
Despite all that, she never said a harsh word against him. Not to the public, not to his face.
“I never thought I’d look my hero in the eyes just to see how much he hates me,” was the cruelest thing she had ever said to him. “Perhaps it’s better if I don’t look.”
That was nearly five years ago. He still remembered the broken slab of walkway where she said it, yellow flowers growing and dying in the cracks of the cement, the wind from the storm coming in, the lamppost outside her new apartment bringing out strands of deep red in her hair.
At that moment, Benji saw her deconstruct her hero, taking him down from the pedestal.
And she was true to her word. She barely looked at him after that day.
Was it that easy to let go of a hero? Was she sincere as she avoided him, or was she playing some sort of game?
The questions bothered him. And so he kept watching her, not realizing that he was becoming more and more infatuated.
Five years. One sentence at a time. One careless smile at a time. One thought at a time. One fantasy at a time.
It had taken him so long to realize it. So long for him to go from the man who accused her to the man who was consumed by her.
No… five minutes wasn’t long enough. That was the first problem.
The second problem was –
“Benji, you liar!”
Someone slapped his arm. Benji choked on both his whiskey and his guilt, staring directly into the eyes of the second reason.
“You told me you were washed up and out of inspiration!” His best friend, Nic, grinned ear to ear. “Lies, all of it. This is some of your best work yet. You’ll have to introduce me to the muse you hide in your pocket.”
Benji laughed bitterly. “Yeah, sure.”
Guilt crawled up Benji’s throat once again as he looked at the paintings around the room, their reds, pale pinks, and corals sharp, pointing to his chest with silent accusations.
Nic pouted in concern, bringing a firm hand up to Benji’s shoulder.
“You alright these days, man?” Nic asked. “You’ve been off for the last month. More than you normally are with these kinds of events.”
Benji tried to wave Nic off with the glass of whiskey in his hand. “I’m fine.”
“You’re drinking more these days too.”
“It’s just nerves.”
“You’re never this nervous.” Nic’s hand moved to Benji’s neck in his usual, brotherly fashion. “You can always tell me what’s on your mind, you know.”
For a brief moment, Benji looked Nic in the eye, his demons tempting him.
The things on my mind? Like the things I want to do to your wife?
He suddenly got nauseous, guilt spreading from his throat to his gut. His business partner. His childhood best friend. The one person Benji trusted more than himself.
Fuck, Nic, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Benji bent over, stomach knotting. Nic reaching out to hold Benji up.
“This is more than nerves,” Nic said, frowning. “Do you need to see a doctor? I can take –“
Benji held onto Nic’s arm as he tried to straighten himself.
“No,” Benji said. “It’s alright. I’ll get over it.”
Benji pressed his lips together to hold back his nausea.
“I promise,” Benji whispered. “I’ll get over it.”
Benji forced a smile to his face despite his gut twisting in half.
“Besides,” Benji continued. “You have an early flight tomorrow, yeah?”
Nic hesitated but nodded. “Yeah, but I mean, if you’re sick –”
“ – just got nervous before the show and drank too much. Really, I’m fine. Don’t ruin your anniversary trip because I was stupid and overdid it, got it?”
Stupid was the nicest word Benji could have given himself.
“It’s a ten-hour flight, yeah?” Benji asked, desperately trying to take the focus off himself and onto something meaningless.
“Yep.” Nic burst into laughter, putting his hands in his pockets as he smiled ear to ear. “Five years. Can you believe it? I know it’s not the best timing, but I believe you owe me an anniversary gift. You said me and Noemi wouldn’t make it past two years. You were obnoxious about it too.”
Benji laughed even though it made his chest and gut ache more. “You only knew each other, what? One month?”
“Two. Glad you finally came around, though.”
Even to this day, Benji wondered if Noemi had ever spoken about the horrible things he had said to her; calling Noemi a gold-digger for marrying Nic so quickly, accusing her of only marrying Nic to get her own art off the ground. He made the accusation more than once, bringing her to tears, even.
If Nic knew all those things, he wouldn’t be so kind about it.
But all that was before dinner and drinks at Nic and Naomi’s house, where mutual friends started conversations about art and beauty. And that was before her first open gallery. It was before she had encouraged Benji through his burnout after his divorce. And before Nic’s chemotherapy… where Benji watched Noemi smile and encourage Nic with a kiss on his forehead, only to slide into the hospital hallway to cry in fear over her husband’s mortality.
If Benji hadn’t gotten her so wrong in the beginning – if he hadn’t considered her so bland and ordinary – then it might have been him instead. It might have been him taking Noemi home tonight, laying in her arms until his demons were silenced.
Instead, he had created new demons. Ones that were eating him inside out.
Benji chugged the rest of the whiskey. “Listen, I’m gonna catch a taxi and head off. Enjoy your anniversary. I’ll make sure to buy you something expensive, yeah?”
Benji then embraced Nic with a firm apology. He made his way to the door, tightening his right hand into a fist at his side as he walked past her, a distraction to keep him from giving into the temptation of turning his head towards her as he walked by.
He grabbed his coat, said a few farewells to the patrons who had come to see him, and then stepped out the door and straight into the street to wave down a taxi.
When one slowed for him, he ripped open the door and collapsed in the backseat, leaning over and putting the heels of his hands into his forehead.
“Where to?” the taxi driver asked.
Benji chuckled. “How far can you go?”
The taxi driver looked over his shoulder. “Come again?”
“How far can you go?” he asked again, this time slower and not to the taxi driver at all.
“How much are you willing to pay?”
Benji swallowed hard.
“I keep asking myself the same question,” he said.
“Eh?”
Benji threw his head back against the headrest.
“Drive until the meter comes to a hundred,” Benji said. “I don’t care about the direction.”
He shut his eyes, ending the conversation.
“Don’t look,” Benji muttered to himself. “It’s better if I don’t look.”
The taxi driver muttered something but Benji wasn’t listening. He was resting against the backseat, pretending it was her shoulder, still wondering what it would taste like if he sunk his teeth into her.
———————————-
(About 1700 words)
by Deidrea DeWitt