An acquaintance of Jay’s was hosting an art pop-up downtown. Inside the gallery, people drifted about in loose clothing—exuberant nods, floppy hand gestures, tinny laughter—their demeanor airless in a way that felt the opposite of the crowd at Nia’s showcase.
Jay touched the small of my back. “Do you want champagne?”
“I’m okay.”
“I’m gonna grab some. I’ll be back.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with myself, so I browsed the art. In one piece, a woman was stabbing her doppelgänger. I bent down to see the title.Violence Against Women.I laughed. A man standing nearby looked disappointed in me.
“What do you think?”
I looked around. A different man had materialized behind me. Why were men like tampons, inserting themselves into everything?
“I’m sorry?”
He laughed like I’d said something riotously funny. “About the artwork. What do you think?”
“Oh, it’s cool.”
“I like this one.” He pointed to a three-panel piece beside it. In the first panel, a woman is standing on a train platform, waving. In the second, a man looks out of the train window at the waving woman. In the last, a different woman is being hit by the train.
What?
“It’s a triptych,” he said.
“I don’t get it.”
He laughed again. “You’re fine. Art doesn’t have to be for everyone.”
The urge to escape this guy hit me over the head like a giant cartoon hammer. I scanned the room for Jay, spotting him in the corner talking to an attractive woman, her hair framing her chubby face in auburn ringlets. I knew they were sleeping together by her body language, the territorial intensity in her eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sabrina.”
“Pretty. Are you from LA, Sabrina?” I hated how he hissed my false name.
“No. DC.”
His face hardened. “How do you feel about the election?” He said this like the election had only happened to people in DC.
“It could’ve gone better.”
I was relieved when Jay caught my eyes. But my relief wavered. He was upset. I went toward him. He shoved himself through the door. The girl went after him, her heels clapping against the sidewalk as I lagged behind. She gave up when he didn’t turn around, slumping back to the gallery.
I said, “That was rude,” when I caught up to him at the crosswalk.
“What?”
“You just left that girl.”
He laughed. “Why do you care?”
“What?”
“I mean, I just don’t see why that’s your business.”
