“Aw, that’s sweet of you.” Cosmo tugged on one dangle earring; the hard points of the geometric charms dug into his fingers. Midday on-the-clock cocktails didn’t seem like the best idea, even if it was sanctioned by the boss. “But I don’t have a hangover. And I really don’t drink that often. Notthatmuch anyway. But…”
“Your boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Although he couldn’t blame anyone for not knowing which one it was at any given time.
“I heard part of the argument.”
Cosmo cringed. He couldn’t remember the exact words he and Zedd had hurled at each other, but it had still felt like ascript Cosmo was doomed to repeatedly act out in some sort of tragic play, his punishment for being shitty in a past life. Well, no more.
He went back to unwrapping the impastos. “I’m putting him behind me.” Which was another reason he didn’t want to sit in a noisy pub with the director. He needed to get back to funeral planning. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I had a huge breakfast. I want to get all of these paintings opened and mounted before the end of the day.”
“You know, you don’t need to work so hard to impress me.” Royce winked. “If you change your mind, do let me know.”
Cosmo nodded, then set the unwrapped paintings on a cart. Royce’s loafers clacked against the tile as he headed back into the gallery.
What to do about that giant stuffed alligator from the theme park? He could give it to Zedd… Or maybe he should stab it repeatedly until the stuffing hemorrhaged out.Thengive it back.
And there were Zedd’s shirts, his toothbrush, a pair of shoes. Trash, all of it.
After unwrapping the rest of the paintings, he pushed them on the cart toward the west wing of the gallery. A wheel squeaked as he passed Isaäk’s blown glass raven skulls, mixed media neoplasticism pieces that took up entire walls, and surrealistic acrylics in eye-watering color combinations.
He stopped at a blank spot of wall and measured the first painting, then divided the number in half and added one hundred and fifty centimeters. He marked it down, then measured the painting’s drop.
The gallery seemed to be empty – at least in this wing – which was welcome at the moment because he had so much on his mind. Despite only working here for a little over a week, patrons had stopped to chat him up on multiple occasions. Aside from yawn-inducing lines about the art being nothing in comparison to his own beauty, what he heard most often wasWhat’s your favorite kind of art?
It was such a broad question. Did they mean his favorite medium? Favorite style? Or did they actually mean art form as in fine art, cinema, architecture, literature, or music?
It really didn’t matter, because he had the same answer for all of them: weird. Déjà had been right – there was nothing beautiful or impressive in the construction ofPrelude To a Broken Arm.It was a snow shovel hanging from the ceiling. But the concept was the point of Dadaism. It was amusing and absurd, and people remembered it.
Cosmo wanted the unusual, the memorable.
Hewas unusual and memorable. But like Duchamp’s shovel, people were often only fascinated by him on a superficial level. He drew attention, but only enough for people to want him as an interesting party guest or to fuck him a couple of times until they grew bored and moved on to someone else.
He wasn’t anyone’s true love.
He was a goddamn snow shovel.
But no one was going to say that at his funeral, he’d make certain of it. They were going to talk about how wonderful he was. God, hopefully people cried. That would be fantastic.
Swiping curls from his eyes, he mounted a painting and checked it with the spirit level. The bubble bobbed in the green liquid, then settled in the middle. Royce needed one for his tie.
Footsteps neared, and Cosmo turned. A wiry white guy in sunglasses and motorcycle boots rounded the corner. Cosmo’s chest clenched, mouth growing dry as he stared at Zedd. He squeezed the level, trying to decide if it would work better as a blunt weapon or a piercing one.
Striding for Zedd, he jabbed a finger at the exit sign. “Get the hell out.”
A single red rose dangled from Zedd’s hand. Sinus-clearing cologne wafted around him. He pushed up his sunglasses. “I am so sorry.”
“Get out. I’m working.”
“Please. It wasn’t my fault. I need another chance.”
“I’m not having this conversation again. We’re through.”
“I’m completely committed to you. Look.” Zedd pulled off his leather jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a band of plastic cling film. Beneath it, in weeping tattoo ink, wasCOSMO.
Unbelievable. “You put as much thought into your tattoos as you do your fidelity.” He turned back to the cart and tried topick up a nail with shaking fingers. “Please do me a favor and spontaneously combust.”
Holding out the rose, Zedd’s voice cracked as he said, “I love you. I love you more than anything. More than–”
