Page 36 of Darling

“Fine. Coffee then,” she huffs.

??

“So that was all he said? He really didn’t have an issue with the porn?” Amata stirs her matcha latte slowly.

I shake my head. “He didn’t seem to, no. He was shocked, he said. And I felt like a dick for not giving him my real name, but you know that’s a habit more than anything now.”

She nods.

“Then his son arrived. Who obviously doesn’t know he likes men, or at least, that’s what I’m assuming. Fuck, it’s a mess, isn’t it? Why am I getting into this with some guy who’s still in love with his dead wife and can’t give me anything?”

Her eyes go wide. “He said that?”

I nod, feeling a little pathetic.

“Shit. When did she die?”

“Like five or six years ago.”

Amata gives me a look of pity that makes my skin crawl.

My phone buzzes and I lift it up. It’s Cole. He had someone cancel on him next week and wonders if I’m free Friday. My instinct is to say no to him, too, but I know the potential revenue this will bring in will be more than anything I’ve posted in months, and I need the money. Paint supplies aren’t cheap. And though DC rent is cheaper than NY, it’s still eating into my savings like fucking Pac-Man. I’ve also been wanting him to fuck me for the last year, so I push everything else to the back and respond with an enthusiastic:

yes! Tell me where and when and I’m there.

“How much did he buy the painting for?” she asks.

“Oh, he hasn’t yet. We were negotiating.” That had consisted of him asking me to name my price and me telling him no, he should tell me how much he thinks it’s worth, before both of us had gotten distracted with some heavy petting. The painting is still in my bedroom. Cole responds:

Next Friday, can you get up to Jersey City?

“I don’t understand any of this, you know,” she says. “Like, what is it about this guy? He’s giving mixed signals, is still in love with his wife—okay, dead wife—can’t fuck you for fear of his heart imploding, and you’re like… a simpering mess over him.”

I look up from my phone to find a look of mild disdain on her face. “I am not fuckingsimpering.”

“You’re simpering. Mooning.”

“Mooning? Fuck off, Am.”

She smirks as I type back my response to Cole:

I can. I’ll drive up early Friday and head back Saturday.

“Okay, well, whatever it is you’renotdoing over him, maybe give him some space. Do your thing, and when he’s feeling better, you can find out if it’s worth it. The sex might not even be good, you barely got a chance to try him out. Maybe your limerence will fade and you’ll be able to think straight over him.” She snorts at her own joke. “Is that him you’re texting?”

I shake my head. “Cole Sanders. He wants to shoot next week.”

“Oooooh yes, baby. Can I watch this one? He’s so fucking hot.”

I shrug. “If you like.”

“Oh, but can you make sure his fucking bedroom is tidy, especially his mirror. I swear that guy needs a fucking cleaner. It’s so distracting.”

“No one gives a shit about what his room looks like, Am. It’s his ten-inch dick they’re looking at.”

“I beg to differ, babes. Women care. And we all know that more women than ever are consuming gay porn. It was in yourDazedarticle.”

“Okay, sure, fine. I’ll ask him to tidy his room before he fucks me into next week with his monster dick.”