We spent the next half hour setting him up with the futon, a bedside table, a lamp, and a rug. The floors were concrete and chilly year-round. We arranged the canvases so it made a decent-sized bedroom. One of the larger paintings was of Melissa. I asked him if he wanted me to cover it.
“Nah.” He stared at it intently. In it she was standing, a full-frontal nude, with one knee raised slightly, arms at her sides like a warrior, hands curling into fists. Her face was stony, her eyes cold. Her expression said,don’t fuck with me, which was pretty much Melissa. Her skin transitioned to a silvery blue in the parts where she was robotic—gears, pistons, belts—half-human, half-engine. Melissa was lean and muscular, like a boy with breasts, and my favorite aspect of the painting, what I thought I did really well, were the muscles in her arms and thighs. The tilt of her body made it seem like she might spring right off the canvas.
“She’s kind of scary.” He rubbed his arms like he was cold. “Like that bad Terminator.”
“The T-1000?” She did resemble him, come to think of it.
He nodded. “Is she going to be pissed I’m here?”
I glanced over at him. He seemed truly concerned. Melissa and I, we messed around from time to time, but we weren’t an item. We were friends and business partners—she got a 15 percent commission from all my sales—but she didn’t interfere much with my personal life. And yet, I recalled the way she’d looked at him, and her coldness toward him since then. Something told me she wouldn’t like this arrangement.
“She’s cool,” I said. “Terrifying, but cool.”
He nodded. “All right, then.”
“I’m going to take a shower.” I pointed to a closet. “Towels are in there. Feel free to watch TV if you want, or… whatever.”
Once in the shower I wondered if it was crazy to invite a near stranger into my house. He could be robbing me right now, if I had anything valuable to take. It’s not like paints and brushes were a hot trade at the local pawnshop. And my paintings, I practically had to pay people to take them away. But there was my laptop and flat screen, my cell phone. I toweled off quickly, unsure of what I might find when I came out.
The place was dead quiet, no television, no radio, nothing. “Andre?” I walked around to the gap between two canvases, where we’d hung a curtain on a rod, his bedroom “door.” I parted it a little ways. He was passed out on the futon, arms splayed, one leg on, one off. He still had his shoes on. He looked younger when he slept and vulnerable, like the kid who fell off the turnip truck. The arrow on his arm pointed toward his open hand. I grabbed the blanket and laid it over him, then turned off the light.
I’ve watched you sleep a thousand times.
6. Simone
“WHO’S SIMONE?”
I shot up in bed. Andre was sitting in the chair across from me, wearing only his boxers, staring at me with a pensive expression.
“Shit, Andre. You scared me.” He looked like a laid-back Adonis. Even slouching, there wasn’t a pinch of extra flesh on him, like the canvas had been stretched tight over his frame, a sculptor’s dream. I was fit, but Andre took it to a whole new level.
“Who’s Simone?” he asked again.
“I don’t know.” I reached for the sheet to cover my morning wood. I’d never had a roommate before, and while I enjoyed waking to this vision, it did seem a little intrusive.
“You were saying her name in your sleep. You’re a loud sleeper, Martin.”
I’d been dreaming, but I couldn’t recall what it was about. “How long have you been sitting there?”
He shrugged and glanced out the window. The morning light silhouetted his jaw and throat. I sketched his profile in my mind. “Long enough,” he said. “I don’t sleep so good either.”
“Really?” I wondered what nightmares kept him up at night.
“Yeah. Can I have some cereal?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you want.”
“Cool.” He stood and glanced down at me once more. His gaze lingered on my chest. I could be mistaken, but I think he was checking me out. He grinned, bobbed his head once, and descended the stairs. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Boy Lolita was strutting around my apartment in his underwear. This was going to take a whole other level of self-control.
I dressed quickly and went downstairs. Andre was sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal. I didn’t have a lot of food in the house, since I mostly ate out or picked up meals from the neighborhood cantinas. “You want to go to the market?” I asked. There was one held daily just a few blocks down the road.
“They got mangoes?”
“Yeah, maybe we could drop off laundry too.” I was hinting that he might want to wash his clothes. “You can borrow some of my clothes if you want.”
“Yeah, okay, let me take a shower first. I must have passed out last night.”
I’ve watched you sleep a thousand times.
