Page 23

DIESEL

M errick’s at the bar by the time I get there. He takes one look at me slamming my way into the back office and shakes his head.

He leans on the door frame. “You fucked her again. Already.” It’s not a question.

“What of it?” I drop into the chair and drag a set of delivery receipts toward me.

“Not your style. But then, not your usual woman.”

I shrug like it doesn’t matter in the least and start sorting the receipts into categories to be stuck in their appropriate files. Booze. Beer. Food. Paper goods.

Merrick raps the frame twice. “See you out front.” Then he’s gone.

I sit back, no longer pretending to look at the paperwork swimming in my vision. I can’t see anything but Symphony. It’s like I’m fourteen goddamn years old.

I open the drawer and drag out the sketch I did of her in the bridesmaid room. Was it only two days ago? I already see flaws in the work, details I know better. I snatch up a pen and start correcting what I can, then find myself turning the paper over and drawing a new one.

Symphony, on my bed, my hand on her neck, crosshatching on her cheeks to show the way they’ve pinked up. Legs wide, my dick aiming for her.

I drop the pen. This is an obsession. I’m no longer sketching to get something out of my head. I’m drawing her to keep her there.

But I can’t stop. I root around for a mostly blank invoice and use the edge of the desk to rip off the plain white section.

This new sketch is different, Symphony at the door of the classroom, looking cocky as she sticks paper to the window with gum.

Did we take that paper off? I’m not sure we did. Something fun for the custodians to find, like a used condom in an empty trash bag inside a locked room.

I finish the sketch and flip the paper over, starting another. Symphony on the bar, hip cocked out, dancing in a tank top. I take extra care with every curve, hips, shoulders, breasts.

I haven’t felt this way before, ever.

Still not feeling the control I’m seeking, I find another scrap of paper and this time focus solely on her face. Wisps of hair on her forehead, the tiny ears, her bright eyes. Those lips.

I take my time, putting in every detail from memory.

But somehow looking at only her face makes me feel even more hot, so I snatch up another half-used page and draw her bent over the desk, nipple peeking out from her flattened breast, naked ass in the air, and this time, I can make every fold and crease of her pussy to exact proportions.

I close my eyes. This is bordering on mania.

Symphony exists everywhere. In the ink, in my memory, before my eyes, in my head.

Songs are written about this feeling. Poetry. Sculpture. Dance.

I suppose it’s what makes an artist, this intensity. I’ve never considered myself one before.

But looking over all the sketches, overwhelmed by my need for her, my absolute obsession with seeing her again, I realize this is it. This is exactly it.

She’s my muse. My reason.

Fuck.

I search around for an envelope and shove all the sketches inside. I lick the flap and seal it closed, scrawling the words “Old tax quarterlies” on the outside so nobody will have the least interest in opening it but also won’t be tempted to toss it.

I shove it in the drawer. What would Symphony think of these drawings? Would she be impressed? Feel violated? Would they make her self-conscious?

Suddenly, I want to know more about art history. What did Mona Lisa think? Botticelli’s Simonetta, who starred in his most famous works?

I never studied any of it, simply picking up pieces here and there from school trips to museums or the glossy coffee table books Mom displayed in the white living room.

I’ve never had an urge to learn more. Know more. How much more accurate could I get in my drawings of Symphony with proper pencils? Or in acrylic or oil?

I don’t have time to take a class like that.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not exactly going to be the next Banksy.

I leave the desk to help with setups. I own a bar. It’s an honorable profession, a necessary one.

I’m fine here. Just fine.

Symphony has to be a phase. Just an unexpected anomaly. I’m only intrigued because she’s so different, so outside of my biker bar norms.

It will fade. Maybe I can’t purge her with sketches like I’ve done with other experiences that weighed on my mind.

But there is no chance someone like her will stay with someone like me for long. She’ll move on to her important work.

And I’ll keep slinging drinks.

To make sure we know where we stand with each other, I unlock my phone and send her a quick text.

Me: Wear something to the library I can cut off you with a knife.

Symphony: Consider it done.

I let out a quick breath. There. That’s what we are. Risk-taking fuck buddies. Adrenaline junkies with our literal junk.

With that decided, I abandon the office to check the kegs for another night at the Leaky Skull.