I could never tell if Arden was teasing or answering honestly. It was part of his allure.
“We do, as a culture, worship beauty to an unhealthy degree,” I said and nearly added,even more so in the gay community. I refrained, though. I didn’t want to make any more assumptions.
“Absolutely.” Arden nodded vigorously. “And our concept of beauty is so narrow. People can be so harsh, whether it’s a meal or a book or a face. New Yorkers are experts at critique. I wish impossibly sculpted abs would go out of style. I’d order a whole loaf of bread.”
I laughed. “People need to be told what to like, even better if it’s unattainable.”
“There are too many choices out there. Some part of our psyche must be begging for our taste to be cultivated without putting in any time or effort. And yes, there is the whole keeping-up-with-the-Joneses.”
Our drinks were delivered to us then. Arden’s was a peach Melba—virgin—which he said tasted like summertime.
“Is alcohol also not part of your diet?” I asked, figuring it was fair game since he’d brought it up.
“It is not,” he said somewhat evasively. “But not because of my workout regimen.”
I absolutely wanted to delve deeper into that subject, but again, I held back. “Where did you go to school?”
He leveled me with a stare. I didn’t know him well enough to know what that particular look meant, though I could probably guess now.
“Brown,” he said, and then provided, without me asking, “on scholarship.”
“Impressive,” I said, and it was. Their admission rate was in the single digits.
“I wrote an essay,” he said simply.
“Are you a writer?” I dreaded his answer. I definitely didn’t need another writer in my life.
“No, I’m eye candy.”
I doubted that, but it did remind me of his minimalist social media, deliberately void of any personal information.
“Your Instagram captions were pretty brief,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t call me out for being a stalker.
“Models shouldn’t have opinions, and if they do, they shouldn’t express them.”
Arden also said things he didn’t mean—to bait people or to simply be contrarian—but I was unaware of that quirk at the time, so I asked sincerely, “Do you really believe that?”
“I’m paid to be a fantasy. An empty canvas. People look at my photographs and project whatever it is they want onto my image. The viewer tells me who I am, what I want, who I love… and I tell them what shoes to buy, what brand of cologne to wear, what spring sweater will set their pits free.”
I laughed at our inside joke while he continued, “Nothing ruins the fantasy faster than the realization that I’m actually just a regular human being with my own petty problems and prejudices. No one wants to know about my body odor or ingrown hairs or that my rent is past due. No one wants that messy reality.”
I do, I thought, unbidden.
“You’re cultivating a mystique,” I said.
“I have to. It’s my only currency.”
We spoke of other things after that. I secured a second lunch date under the pretense of needing to visit a friend in Brooklyn, but over the next few days, Arden’s remark stuck with me. How many attractive people believed their beauty was their only currency, and what happened when it faded? How much of their lives were governed by that fear alone?
Our next lunchdate was at an NYC franchise known for its fresh fruit and market vegetables. By then, I understood enough about Arden’s diet to know that carbs and red meat were a rarity for him. Dessert was out of the question. His relationship with bread was complicated to say the least.
The location he picked was in Greenpoint, near his flat and Bitzy’s place as well. His apartment was something I desperately wanted to see—more clues into Arden’s backstory.
I couldn’t help but think of people as characters sometimes, especially when I was just getting to know them. What motivated them and what made them tick? Though I didn’t much care for humanity as a whole, I found certain individuals endlessly fascinating.
“I’m sorry if this seems rude,” I said after we’d ordered, “but you don’t seem like a model to me.”
“Oooooh, this sounds controversial already.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “So much to unpack in that statement. What’s the type you had in mind?”
