Page 9 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Is it even good art if you don’t starve for it, bleed for it, dance naked down the streets drunk on life and swinging a lasso, trying to capture that fleeting, elusive moment in timewhen your soul ignites and your heart bursts into flames…and translate that cryptic language onto paper or parchment or canvas…mold it into clay…chisel it into stone and write it on cave walls like humans have done since the dawn of civilization…

Seize all the madness. Write lyrics set to secret chords.

CHAPTER THREE

“How wouldyou like to be my fashion buyer?” Simone asked.

“Fashion buyer?” I adjusted the sequin beret on one of the mannequin’s heads and fluffed up a magenta tulle skirt. I’d paired it with a Keith Haring T-shirt and a teal leather motorcycle jacket.

While some designers were embracing minimalism, Simone was firmly in the maximalist camp. The West Village boutique was a one-stop shop and meeting place for drag queens, Club Kids, celebrities, artists, and the avant-garde crowd.

I loved working at House of Simone, but I’d never planned on making a career of it.

I climbed off the platform and turned to face her. “But I don’t even have the qualifications.”

“I’ve been mentoring you for years,” she said, unlocking the door and motioning for me to follow. “Those are all the qualifications you need.”

I grabbed the cup of coffee that I’d left by the register, and my eye snagged on the date stamped on an invoice. I double-checked the desk calendar just to be sure.

No wonder everything felt so off today.

It was September 24th.

For 364 days of the year, I barely gave him a passing thought but whenever this day rolled around, it always felt like a dark cloud hung over my head. Which was so stupid. Why did I still care when I never should have cared at all?

The date means nothing to you. It’s just another Thursday.

I shook it off and followed Simone out to Eighth Street as a bike messenger flew past and a taxi swerved, honking the horn and shouting obscenities. I watched a guy with a shaved head and a tattooed face leading a girl down the street by a leash connected to the dog collar around her neck. She wore a black garbage bag fashioned into an asymmetrical dress and barked on command.

“I wonder if she rolls over, too,” I mused. “Or does she just sit up and beg?”

Simone cackled. “You’re naughty. That’s why I love you.” She waved at “Jackie Onassis” who was walking an actual dog. A French poodle with a bad attitude. “How’s it going today, Jackie?”

Jackie, whose name wasn’t really Jackie but only answered to that name, waved her hand in the air theatrically. She wore Jackie O sunglasses, a pillbox hat, and a black sheath dress with pearls around her neck. “Oh, Simone. I was up all night with my poor little love.”

Her “poor little love” growled and bared its teeth at me. I didn’t know why that dog hated me so much.

My friend Xavi told me it’s because I give off strong cat energy.“Let’s face it, Cleo. You’re a black cat.”

“Coco,” Jackie cooed. “Don’t growl at our lovely Cleo. Mommy will give you a treat when we get home. There’s a good girl…goodbye, darlings,” she called over her shoulder.

Yep. It was just another Thursday.

I stood in a patch of sunlight and drank my now-cold coffee while Simone tilted her head and studied my windowdisplay. Mustard yellow velvet curtains served as the backdrop, offsetting the mannequins’ neon pink wigs and a cornucopia of vintage jewelry.

“This role will be good experience for when you start your own label,” Simone said as we went back inside, having deemed that my window design passed inspection.

“My own label? I’m not a fashion designer. I’m an artist.” Technically, I was a salesgirl and window dresser with a side gig as an artist.

I loved making things—sketching, painting, collaging, weaving and sewing—but I’d never had any aspirations to become a fashion designer.

“And what do you think fashion is? It’s a form of self-expression.” She swept her hand down her own outfit—chartreuse hot pants and a purple kaleidoscope silk shirt that clashed with her cherry red hair, but she pulled it off. Simone always looked cool. “It’s wearable art.”

“No, I know but?—”

“The job comes with a raise. Lord knows you’re always broke.”

Icoulduse the extra money, but I still wasn’t ready to commit.