You and I Were Born to Die

New York is sickeningly warm in June. I curse as a bead of sweat makes its way down my lower back, absorbing into the brim of my jeans. I stand on my bike pedals as I turn the corner of Tompkins Square. A cab honks in fear of me scraping his precious yellow paint job. I was no where near hitting him. Riding a bike in Manhattan poses its threats but jumping the bar and running from subway employees is equally as unpredictable and only fun when you’re drunk.

I wheel the bike down the dimly lit hall of my dimly constructed apartment building. Naomi, my neighbor’s, dog reacts violently to the clicking of the wheels. You’d think the stupid thing would learn. I ring my bike bell to provoke it, payback for Naomi’s slurred phone calls last night. Something had to wake her up before dinner, anyways.

The door to my apartment creaks open in stereo. Hutton is sprawled out asleep on the couch. He doesn’t stir. Hutton came from South Carolina a few months ago to hide from his painfully “South Carolina” family. He’s received a warm welcome from Naomi. I’m still not certain who is charming their way into who’s pants.

Though I don’t care to admit it, I grew up fairly close to Hutton’s home state. After a few years in New York, my accent only makes an appearance after a hefty bottle of wine. Most people think it’s cute. I think it’s a repulsive reminder of the repulsive town I haven’t laid eyes on in 5 years.

The floorboards creak under me as I make my way to the couch. I tap Hutton’s dangling foot with the tip of my boot. After a few tries, he startles awake.

He rubs his face, “Shit you’re home already?”

I nod. “You have the rent?”

“Yeah, hang on.” He reaches for his pants on the floor and fishes out his wallet.

He hands the money to me, meeting my knowing gaze.

He cracks a smile. “What?”

I smile back, take the money, and make my way to my room.

I change out of my work clothes and avoid glancing into the corner of my room, as I do most days. Regardless, I can feel it burning a hole in my back. I pull the shirt over my head, roll my neck, and take a breath. I turn. There it sits, staring back at me, the painting that I can’t bring myself to finish. It’s not that I don’t try, but no matter how much paint I smear on the canvas, I’m never satisfied.

I take a seat on the stool in front of the painting. After a moment, I pick up a paintbrush and mull over where I can fuck it up next. I tap the end of the brush on my closed lips as I already begin to grow frustrated. I grab a tube of paint and begin to open it. I immediately reconsider and throw the acrylic aside in rage. I scratch the back of my head and press my lips together.

“Hutton?”

“Yeah?” He calls back from the next room.

“Want to get out of here?”

****

Naomi nearly trips over her own feet approaching the bar. Could be all the uneven sidewalks in the city. Could be the empty flask in her purse. She pulls out her ID to show the bouncer. She’ll never let anyone else see it for fear of revealing that it reads Park Avenue. I admire her for choosing independence from her parents when it would have been so easy to do otherwise. We met the night she moved in next door. She asked if I would come with her to get a tattoo, the ultimate sign of rebellion in her parent’s eyes. I agreed and became her first friend without a personal shopper.

The club is too loud to talk inside. I motion towards the bar. Naomi and Hutton nod and walk into the crowd. I don’t need to see whatever they’re about to do anyways. I cross my legs on top of the barstool and acknowledge the band on stage. Not my typical cup of tea, but they’re decent enough.

Several drinks later, I notice that the guy on the stool next to me has been keeping count and calculating his next move. I throw back the rest of my cup and walk outside, mental cursing my shaky legs. Maybe I should have asked the guy exactly how many I’ve had.

I pull the cigarettes out of my purse and squat down on the pavement. The street seems quiet compared to the bar. I start thinking about the painting. Maybe I should have asked the guy to buy me a drink. I run my hands through my hair, ruffling the back of it, and then attempting to smooth it out. I take a long drag on my cigarette. The stupid painting shouldn’t matter so much. I lean my head back against the building and close my eyes. I find momentary peace before realizing the voice to my right is being directed at me.

“Hey...hey...” I open my eyes to a tall guy with big brown eyes standing over me.

“Yes?” I don’t move.

“I hate to bother you, but do you have a lighter?” I nod, stand, and hand it to him. Maybe he’s not as tall as I thought. I put out my cigarette and then dig through my purse for my phone. I should find Naomi and Hutton.

“Thanks.” I take the lighter from him and turn to walk away.

He stops me, “Hey, are you okay?” I’m initially taken back, but he seems genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He shoves his hand at me. “I’m Jack.” I notice he’s standing with another guy. I’m pretty sure they’re the band from inside, but not entirely positive.

“Olivia.”

His friend offers his hand, “Alex.”

“Nice shirt,” Alex gestures at my Nirvana t-shirt.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, they’re my favorite band,” Jack chimes in.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” the vodka taking hold of the filter between my mind and mouth. I immediately regret my jab at their music.

Alex smiles, “I guess we can’t all be as rock and roll as Cobain.”

I half-heartedly smile and nod, “guess not.”

Laughter bursts out behind me as Naomi and Hutton stumble out of the bar. I turn and sigh, knowing how the rest of the night will play out. Either way, the walls are thin.

Naomi rolls onto the ground. Without turning around, I tell the guys I’ll see them around and attempt to pull her off of the sidewalk.

I manage to get Naomi and Hutton into a cab at the end of the block. I send it off and begin to walk away. I don’t know why I would have expect anything different. Back to the drawing board. I hear foot steps rapidly approaching.

“Hey, wait!” I turn to see Alex jogging up to me. I raise my eyebrows waiting for him to speak.

“Alex?” The girl calls from back at the bar. She walks the short distance to us. I watch Alex as his hopeful expression is hit with reality. The girl joins us.

“Who’s your friend?” Immediately dislike her for not speaking directly to me. He gives her a slight smile. Or is it a grimace? He should work on that.

“I’m Olivia.”

“Hi, I’m Lisa.” I nod, not knowing what else to do with her eagerness. I fill in the rest of the blanks and assume this is his girlfriend.

“Cool,” I look to Alex and press my lips together, “See you around.” Whatever had been on the tip of his tongue leaves him. I turn on my heel, too many vodkas into the night to decipher what had just happened, if it had been anything at all.