3. Just Like Honey
The view from his apartment has always impressed you. You forget how, from this vantage point, the city expands violently outward before disappearing into the harbour. How at sunset, you can see the moment the sky turns from blue to black. Each time you leave, you forget the specifics of the view that’s visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the image remaining opaque until you re-enter it.
Behind you, you hear him lifting a beer from the fridge. He doesn’t offer you one and you don’t bother asking. That wouldn’t fit the narrative. You rarely see him outside the apartment anymore, and sometimes, at home, you find yourself scrolling through Instagram, needing the visual reminder of what he looks like, that you aren’t just constructing an image.
There’s a long pause and you hear the fridge closing and the sound of a bottle cap falling against the kitchen countertop. You’re still looking out the windows, the sky outside an almost transparent blue. You wonder if she appreciates the view as much as you do or if seeing it as frequently as she does robs it of its affective charge.
You coming or what? he asks.
You turn to face him, his body silhouetted in the entrance of the hallway – tan and blond, the beginnings of an erection visible through his briefs. And even though you’ve seen his body exposed and in close-up, you allow yourself a moment to take him in, his attractiveness and the things he represents. An unidentifiable expression briefly flashes across his face, and, just for a moment, you hope that he’ll smile.
When Mia asks if you’ve been seeing anyone, you tell her that you’ve been busy and that you’re focusing on yourself.
I just want you to be happy, Mia says. Sometimes I worry about you.
I am, you say, even though this no longer fits the script.
You know that, in theory, Mia wouldn’t care about what you’re doing. That if it were anyone else, she’d laugh and remind you of the weekend she’d spent with a married Saudi billionaire. But you know where Mia’s loyalties align. You’ve seen photos on their accounts – drinks at The Winery; trying on matching Juste un Clou bracelets; Mia on the Camaleonda beside the windows. So it’s easier to remain silent. To answer her questions in half-truths. To tell her that things are fine.
You often think back to the night it started. How the two of you had been out on the patio of someone’s house in Dover Heights, the white glow of an infinity pool cutting through the darkness, New Order’s ‘Ceremony’ booming out across the scene, the initial rush of the coke slowly dropping away. And you remember thinking about how much you wanted him. How a part of you always had and how it felt like the night represented an opportunity that would never repeat itself.
I have another gram, you remember telling him. We can go upstairs so no one will see.
And you remember the way he’d met your gaze and how he’d gone silent for a second longer than was natural.
He didn’t look at you while you blew him. You kept glancing at his face but his eyes remained focused on the ceiling. There was something intoxicating about this, the way he treated you like you were barely there. That you could have been anyone and it wouldn’t have mattered.
Towards the end, he broke away from his passivity. Pushed your head down while he pumped into your mouth. Held it in place and only released it after he came. Later, you think back to this moment and how this was the first time he acknowledged your presence.
Neither of you acknowledged it the next day. You went swimming with the others and drank Ott ‘Etoile and lay on chaise lounges beside the pool, watching chemtrails bisect the sky. You sat with him and listened as he talked about her – how she was returning from visiting her grandparents in Tuscany the following week and how he missed her.
I haven’t felt this way before, man, he said, ashing onto the tiles.
You tried to ignore the incongruity of the ad lib. That was something new, an apparent attempt to re-assert his masculinity.
So she’s not just a cunt with a pretty face, you said, playing along.
When he spoke again there was an edge to his voice.
I know you’re joking, he said, but don’t fucking talk about her like that.
A week and a half later, in his apartment, a little stoned with Black Ops splashed across the television, he briefly glanced at you before re-focusing on the screen. An almost imperceptible gesture – something only visible to someone paying attention. Someone watching. He knew you were hoping for this. Had reassessed your friendship and understood you in a way he hadn’t before.
He didn’t say anything as you moved onto the floor. You didn’t care that your roles were starting to shift, that he only saw you as something to be emptied into. All that mattered was that he’d initiated it. That in his own way, he wanted you too..
You’d seen her a few times, at parties and birthday dinners, but it was only after she returned that you spoke. The two of you sat beside a fire pit and compared opinions on the films and novels you’d seen and read, your appreciation of Julia Ducournau and the pretension of Natasha Brown.
You hate that you liked her. That you understood what he saw in her and why they were together. That the reasons he was drawn to her extended beyond her exterior aesthetic – a kind of Stacy Martin type who appeared fundamentally incongruous within your Australian context.
I’m glad he has you, she told you. I never had friends like that growing up.
It helped that our parents were close, you said, taking the joint she offered you.
Well, I’m glad, she said. And then, laughing, I guess we’ll have to share him now.
He doesn’t look at you when he fucks you. In his room, you lie face-down on his bed and focus on his hand gripping your hips or pressing your head into the mattress. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
It’s hard to know what he gets out of this, but lying there, you like to think he does it for you. That it’s his way of returning the favour. But another part wonders if this is true. Because when you blow him, you tell yourself, he’s the one that adopts the passive role, whereas in his bedroom, spread out and malleable beneath him, he’s the one that’s in control.
Maybe that’s why he initiated it the first time.
Come on, he’d said, moving away from the couch. You’d waited until he disappeared before following. You knew what was coming and it was thrilling.
He was already naked when you entered his room, was waiting for you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before diverting away.
Get on your stomach, he said.
A trip is planned. You hear about it during dinner at an upmarket Japanese restaurant. Two weeks in Marrakesh, she tells the table, La Mamounia, then a third at her grandparents’ house in rural Tuscany. He’s smiling while she says this and you struggle to remember the last time that emotion registered when it was just the two of you. Three weeks total. Three weeks when it’ll just be them. He’s become such a focal point that it’s hard to imagine what it’ll be like while he’s gone and the vacant space he’ll leave behind.
It’s getting serious, Mia says to you, afterwards, in the Uber. You don’t spend that kind of money if it’s not.
Outside, the world blurs past, lights cutting through the darkness and turning the scenery into a series of abstract shapes. As soon as you latch onto a singular image, it fades back into obscurity.
You try to think of a response. You can’t. Mia doesn’t seem to notice.
Occasionally, you go out and meet other guys. You download apps and take Ubers to houses you won’t see again. They generally treat you better than he does, but this doesn’t change your relationship with him. Ultimately, they’re just a placeholder; a distraction until he’s ready to see you again.
You usually see them when he hasn’t answered your texts. When it’s been days, and the only proof of his existence is the word “read” written beneath your messages. He rarely answers anymore. Even in person, at social events, he remains detached, only speaking to you when necessary. And even then, there’s a faux quality to these exchanges that is almost unbearable. A crude imitation of authenticity.
Instead, he messages you when she’s away or out with friends – an invitation to get stoned or to go back to his for kick ons. Occasionally, you let the message sit there, telling yourself that you’ll reciprocate his treatment. But this only prolongs the inevitable. That any attempt to follow through on this train of thought would represent an incongruity in the narrative that you’ve created.
Sometimes, as you’re sitting there, you wonder if he misses what you used to have. If he resents you for ruining whatever it was you shared. But there isn’t a way to revert to what you had, and anyway, you wouldn’t want to give up the things you’ve gained.
While they’re away, you follow his movements on social media. You refresh their feeds and like photos of them lounging beside the pool in their private riad and wandering through the resort’s gardens. Several in the Yves Saint Laurent Museum and a crowded Souk, though these are mostly of her. He’s smiling in them, his skin darkening under the sun. These are the things you notice – the subtle changes in his exterior, the way he laughs in the stories she posts. Your feelings towards her have gradually shifted into something more sinister. Not quite jealousy or hatred, but something close.
One night, a little drunk, you try to phone him, needing to hear his voice. To confirm he still wants you. He doesn’t answer, and it takes another three attempts before he does.
Stop calling me, he says.
I miss you, you tell him.
What the fuck is wrong with you? he says.
Can I see you when you get back? you ask.
Where do you think this is going? he says.
Does it have to be going anywhere? you say. Things are good, right?
You’re fucking delusional, he says.
Don’t call me again, he says.
He ends the call.
When you were twelve, you watched him kill a puppy. It was early evening and you rode your bikes to the neighbourhood park with a packet of menthols he’d stolen from his mother’s Chanel bag. You sat beside him on the edge of a plastic slide, the cigarette passing between your fingers, and even though you were both inexperienced, you were the only one who coughed.
At some point, the two of you had made your way to the park’s perimeter and found a French bulldog partially wedged under the fence separating the oval from the adjoining National Park. It wasn’t wearing a collar and its fur was matted with dried blood from where the wire fencing had cut into its skin. And you remember wondering where it had come from and how long it had been. Why its head was pointing towards you, rather than the other way, and why no one had tried to save it.
The dog managed to give its tail a small wag and he’d turned to you and said it was dying. Had explained how, one time, a bird had flown into his living room window and broken one of its wings. How his father had told him there was no chance of recovery and snapped its neck. He didn’t have to elaborate.
You didn’t say anything and he didn’t ask you to help. You stood there watching the dog while he walked away and disappeared for what felt like a long time.
He returned with a rock. You stepped back and watched as he knelt beside the dog, allowing it to lick his exposed palm. And you remember how you’d wanted to look away, while simultaneously wanting to know the effect one object had on another. And how, even then, you recognised there was something inherently intimate about the moment.
The first time the rock came down on its head, the dog managed a small yelp and twitched a little. The second time it didn’t really do anything. The third left a gory crater in the top of its head. Afterwards, he threw the rock over the fence and began walking to where you’d left your bikes.
I know I probably don’t have to tell you this, he said later that night while Evil Dead flickered across his laptop, but you can’t tell anyone about that.
Don’t worry, you said. I won’t.
I’m serious, he pressed. This is just between us, okay?
You were almost hurt by the assumption you’d tell someone. Why would I? You wanted to ask. Why would I share something that was only ours?
While he’s away, you go to a club, needing to distract yourself from what you know is coming. The club is dark and crowded and you attempt to lose yourself among the bodies. Above you, lasers strobe and merge together, forming a technicolour sunset that’s so intense it seems impossible that meaning is not contained within it.
At some point, two men approach you, one in front and one behind, and you dance together, the bass so loud it reverberates through your body – eighties new wave remixed into obscurity. Under the neon glow of the lights, their features appear abstract and ghostlike, like they’re only the idea of people. The concept. One of them kisses you, then the other. The first offers you a small hexagonal pill, and when you nod, he places it onto your outstretched tongue..
You continue to dance between them. For a moment, you’re able to forget, your memories emptying out until only the surface image remains. But then one of them leans in and asks if you want to leave and you say that you do.
Outside in the cool black of the night, their features are more defined – dark hair and strong jawlines, their shirts damp with sweat. The three of you climb into an Uber and the scene fast-forwards until you’re back at one of their houses, where floor-to-ceiling windows give way to an unobstructed view of the South Pacific. It would be beautiful in daylight. But it’s late now, close to 3 a.m., and beyond the white glow of the infinity pool there’s only darkness. A void-like black.
You follow them into a bedroom and the three of you sit on the edge of the mattress.
You should take off your jeans, one of them says.
The pill feels like it’s wearing off, but when you move to unzip your pants, your vision blurs and your hand connects with one of their legs. The other one laughs then moves behind you, holding you in place while the other stands and pulls them off.
That’s better, he says.
The one behind you lets go of your shoulders, and you fall back against the mattress and stare up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. You hear them moving around you, the sound of a draw opening.
Hey, sit up, man, one of them says.
It’s difficult, but you get there eventually.
A small tray is presented. Two thick lines assembled across its surface.
What is it, you hear yourself say.
Ketamine, they tell you.
After snorting the lines you lie back again, then sort of zone out while they take turns fucking you. At first you try to differentiate their bodies, but this doesn’t last for long.
Briefly, you think of Tyler. You wonder if the similarity of your exteriors is part of the appeal or if it’s simply because you’re willing in a way no one else is. If you’d stand a chance if you looked like her. But these specifics don’t matter, not really. Because you already know he’ll call when he gets home and that you’ll answer. That there’s something enigmatic about you that draws him in. Something special. Something only you can give
Remi Shapiro-James is a writer currently living in Naarm/Melbourne. He is an editor and co-founder of Varnish and is currently working on his debut novel.