Edge Play X (14 page)

“Don’t do that!” Compton exclaimed.
“The alarm will sound! I will have it delivered to you.”

X went over to Compton and kneeled in front
of where he sat on the floor.

“Close your eyes,” she said, and ever
so gently, she leaned forward and kissed him on his lips, soft and smooth and
malleable. He returned her affection.
 

Compton spoke softly, “X, I have a
request.”

X stood up and turned away from him.

“What is it?”

He continued. “In two weeks I will be
going to Paris on business. Come with me, X, not as my
Domina
,
but just as my traveling companion.”

Simeon had told X that Compton had
been planning to ask her to accompany him on a business trip, and he had
obviously been correct. Must be that the bug in the office really was getting
them information.

“I don’t know,” she said, mesmerized
by the artwork again.

“Have you been to
Paris
before?” he asked.

X turned to look at him and gently shook
her head no.

“It’s lovely, X, beautiful. Like you.”

“I will have to think about it,” she
answered.

“I understand,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Stay there,” X told him. “Lie on the
floor and don’t watch me as I leave.”

X went to the intercom, saying, “Mr. Steinberg,
I am ready to go,” and then she exited the room.

12.

The painting came by certified
delivery. Unsure exactly what to do with it, X simply hung it on her living
room wall. After all, who would believe that she owned a real Van Gogh? She
almost did not believe it herself.

X spent hours staring at it, so it
seemed, looking at it in little spurts or in longer periods of adoration,
studying the color palette that was used and memorizing the peaks and valleys
of the brushstrokes, the mad torrents of oil, the unexpected dabs of color here
and there. And the stoic woman in the painting, her red hair wrapped atop her
head in a braid, holding rosary beads perhaps in her long, thick fingers which
sat on her lap beneath matronly breasts, cast her gaze not to the viewer of the
painting, but to the side as if in contemplation.

It was Van Gogh whom X loved more than
other artists. Her adoration was not because of his prolificacy, or his
technique, or his failure to achieve fame in his lifetime, or the fame that he
had achieved posthumously, or the landscapes, groups, portraits, or
self-portraits that he had painted, although X appreciated all those things.
No, X was drawn to him because his visionary gift was inextricably linked to
his madness, to his torture, and X, prone to experiencing a similar distress
(albeit on a smaller scale) felt camaraderie in their suffering. She loved him
for his suffering. As she stared at his painting, X wondered if it was possible
to fall in love with a person solely through their artwork.
 

After this last time of seeing
Compton
, the man had sent X flowers again, but this time
he had sent 20 bouquets of white roses together. There was barely room in her
apartment to put them all, and a few bouquets X had simply placed on the floor
here and there. Soon, she would have to tell
Compton
that she would accompany him to
Paris
and get further instructions from Simeon.

For the moment, however, X took
delight in the painting and in the fact that
Compton
no longer owned it. Even though it now belonged
to her, she did not consider herself anything other than a steward of the work.
Sometimes, in periods of contemplation, X would go up to the canvas and ever so
gently place the tip of her index finger upon it, knowing that technically she
should not be doing such a thing, but she could not restrain herself. Just as
when a gift is received from a far-away love and it is held closely for nothing
other than the fact that the loved one held it, touched it, handled it, so it
was that X would touch the painting and try to reach through time.

To say that there was a melancholy
that was alleviated by being in the presence of that painting, well, that would
not be untrue. But there were other ways in which X tried to quell her
feelings.

The next Saturday evening, Anne came
over and chided X into going out with her. Anne was dressed-up and perfumed and
X knew there would be no saying no to her.

“You must come out with me tonight, I
absolutely will not allow you to stay in, you little homebody. And all these flowers,”
Anne said, leaning over to sniff a bunch, “if you don’t get out of this
apartment you’ll die from hay fever.”

Anne’s attention was caught by the
painting and she went over to it to examine it, saying, “That is absolutely the
best replica of a Van Gogh I have ever seen.” After a few more moments, her
attention was back to the task at hand. “I have the babysitter all night, and
you and I are going to go out, my dear.” She was all smiles and excitement, and
X gave in, happy in fact to be getting out for the night.

They went to a bar that Anne liked but
that X had never visited before. She and Anne entered the establishment and sat
at the long, polished bar, putting their feet onto the copper footrest below. The
Christmas decorations were out in full force, the holiday just a few days away.
Long strings of white lights hung below the crown molding of the ceiling,
creating a weightless luminary halo; garlands of pine decorated with wide
scarlet bows draped the wood above the lighted shelves that showcased the
various liquors. A few of the waitresses wore Santa hats.

It was a busy night, and the
bartenders worked nonstop pouring drinks for waitresses who hurried to the bar
with their round trays precariously balanced on their inner forearms. Finally,
one of the bartenders made his way over to them.

He wiped his hands on the apron tied
around his waist and then said, “What can I get you ladies?”

Anne answered, “White wine, please.”

“And you?”

“A Dos
Equis
,”
X said.

Then the bartender went away to get
their drinks.

As the women watched him pour the wine
and then the beer, Anne commented, “Handsome, isn’t he?”

X smiled in agreement with her. The
man was handsome. Not especially tall but rugged and strong, an assemblage of
masculine lines. He brought over their drinks and put them onto little
cardboard coasters.

Anne started to reach into her purse
but X stopped her.

“My treat tonight,” X said, handing
him a bill.

Anne didn’t protest, aware that she
had helped X in many ways and that now her friend was returning the favors.

“I might as well let you,” she said,
“especially with all the sales you’ve been making. In my professional opinion,”
Anne said, raising her eyebrows in the way that always made X chuckle, “you are
going to have many good sales from here on out. Cheers!”

X took a drink from her beer and
watched the bartender. She liked it when he laughed.

“And all those flowers at your
apartment—I am not even going to ask because I know that you will not give me
the answer.”

“I should have given you a bunch,” X
said.

“No, my dear, relish them. When you
are as old as me it will give you something to look back on fondly and remember
how beautiful and desired you were.”

“Oh, Anne, you aren’t so much older
than me,” X said.

Anne brushed her bobbed blond hair
back over her ear jokingly. “I guess I’m not so decrepit.”

X laughed, thinking that it felt good
to laugh again. Drinks and laughs, they were a good combination.

They talked about the gallery, Anne
telling X about her plans for her work. Anne had quite easily become her
manager and she was doing a good job at it. Aside from that, Anne was motherly
and nurturing, and those traits drew X to her. Despite their closeness, X
couldn’t bring herself to divulge to Anne that soon she would be accompanying
Terry Compton to
Paris
. She didn’t know how to explain it, especially
with her senses veiled with alcohol.

The bartender came back and they
ordered another drink.
 

“That bartender,” Anne told her as he
fixed their drinks, “he owns the bar. Doesn’t he look like he could be a Roman
soldier? He just has those features, those deep Roman eyes.”

He came near to her and X surveyed him
closely, shooting him a smile. He shot one back.

“It’s true,” she said to her friend.

They talked about politics and the
other artists at the gallery.

But then Anne said to X, “You have
been so successful lately. What is behind all the melancholy?”

Anne had a way of seeing what was
going on under the surface, and her ability reminded X of her own mother which
made her mourn for her absence.

She looked into the back of the bar
where the pool tables were and watched as people played under the stained glass
lights. Merrily, a young woman rubbed chalk on the felt of the cue and laughed.
A couple gave each other a long, slow kiss under a sprig of mistletoe as a few
patrons cheered them on.

“It’s nothing,” X said, “I always get
glum in the winter around the holidays.”

Anne was polishing off the last of her
drink. “There’s nothing better than combating that than a good romp in the
sack, love.”

With that, Anne’s cell phone began to
ring and she fished it out of her purse. It was the babysitter.

She closed her other ear with her
fingertip, masking some of the noise from the bar. When she finished her
conversation, she said, “Oh, damn. Charlie’s got a fever. I’m destined to never
have a full night out.”

X started to grab at her purse.

“But you stay here, I insist,” Anne
said. And although X didn’t want to be there without her, she didn’t want to return
home, either.

“I’ll wait outside with you for the
taxi and have a cigarette,” X said, “and then I’m going to go inside and finish
getting drunk.”
 
They were hanging on
each other laughing.

When X returned inside, her place at
the bar was still open, and the man she had nicknamed The Roman was there,
waiting to pour her another drink.

13.

X spent the remainder of the night
flirting with men and playing pool. None of the men she spoke with, however,
piqued her attention enough to want to leave the bar with them. So, as the bar
was getting near to closing, she asked the bartender if he could give her the
number for a taxi.

He handed her a couple business cards
for taxi services that he kept behind the bar.

“Do you live around here?” he asked.

“Not that far, ten minutes away, maybe
fifteen.” X pulled out her phone and started to dial.

He was washing glasses quickly in the
sinks, moving them from one basin to another before putting them onto a drying
area.

“Because,” he began, “if you don’t
mind waiting around until the bar closes, I’ll give you a ride home.”

She considered his offer and the
implications it might have before answering, “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

He poured a beer and set it in front
of X, its bubbles rising up through its warm amber. “We just have to close out
our drawers and get the drunks out of here,” he said. “A cleaning crew comes in
the morning before we open.”

People were starting to make their way
out, and after the last one left, the owner locked the door behind them. He and
the other bartender closed out their drawers, deftly counting bills and coins
before putting everything into a small zippered bag.
 
Waitresses scurried around with empty glasses
and pitchers or wiped off tables. X’s presence at the bar seemed to go
unnoticed. Surely, she knew, she was not the first woman who had waited around
for the owner.

Bored, X went to the back where the
two pool tables were, selected a cue, put some money into the table, and
released the balls. She started to shoot at the striped ones, and as usual, was
terrible.

When the man came back, he looked
relieved to see X at the tables.

“There you are,” he said. “I thought
maybe you left.” He surveyed the table. “Shooting stripes, eh?
 
I’ll give you a head-start.”

He picked up a cue and immediately shot
a solid into a corner pocket. He kept going until X was sure he would clear the
table. Then, finally, he missed a shot.

“There you go. Your turn.”

A couple of the waitresses walked by,
waving him a quick good-bye.

“Turn out the front lights on your way
out,” he said to them, and X heard the door closing behind them.

“Is everyone gone now?” she asked.

“All ours,” he said.

X took a shot and the ball ricocheted
off the rail.