"No need to hurt yourself just to love someone."

OTR | HEART

•

a a l i y a h

I had been to the Meatpacking district at night a handful of times, and most of my adventures used to be at the Chelsea Market, two years ago. Back when my ex-boyfriend, Nick, and his band were invited to play. Regardless, I never returned there as the fear of seeing him again followed me.

Attending an art exhibition wasn't something I was invited to do often, and even though I nearly passed on Derek's offer, I realized that I wanted to be a witness to the ever-changing world of art.

It was the one evening in New York City that was suspiciously warm, and I foolishly thought it would be appropriate to opt for a long, bright red satin skirt and a matching top. The material of my blouse was thinner than I thought, and the air conditioners powered above us, creating a ripple of goosebumps along my arms.

Derek's gaze lingered over the tiny diamond studs along my earlobe with a disapproving look. He had a way of making it very apparent when he didn't like something.

A waiter whisked by with a tray of champagne that I eagerly took.

This gallery resembled that of a warehouse but rebuilt to suit the concrete jungle instead of the Industrial Age. The floors were a cold white marble with white pillars exuding elegance and distinctive renaissance class. The walls were white with bright overhead lights illuminating the room with a dazzling fluorescence. This wasn't a gallery I was very accustomed to attending. Most of the galleries I had stumbled upon in my early twenties were small, humble, and ornamented with rustic elements. They all felt very grounded.

This was the opposite. I felt like I was on an eccentric two-story cloud. To be fair, I couldn't expect Derek to take me to any place mundane.

"What are you thinking about?" Derek whispered into my ear, drawing my attention from the enigma of my mind to him.

I batted my eyelashes, embarrassed to be caught in such a dream-like state.

"Just some work stuff," I gave him a small reassuring smile.

"Speaking of which, I have a few people for you to meet." Derek's arm fell to his side before he adjusted his tie.

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"Just a few of my colleagues," he said.

Oh no, please, no more finance talk.

"Wait," I paused, searching his eyes. "This isn't going to turn into one of those conversations where you guys all talk about stocks, and I just roll my eyes?" My tone was playful as I lightly treaded the waters of his sense of humor. He was an unpredictable guy, it's always been difficult to tell what he would deem funny and what he would deem offensive or stupid.

Derek's lips parted slightly, and he shook his head, tediously. "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

A light nasal chuckle peppered the air as Derek folded his arms across his chest, like a bratty child. "That you despise me talking about stocks."

While most people spoke with a spectrum of expressions, I spoke in smiles. "Maybe despise is a little harsh. I mean, do you think the hottest topic to discuss at dinner is Elon Musk privatizing Tesla?" My smile faltered when I attempted to grasp what I just spewed. "There should surely be other things to discuss instead of calculating probabilities."

Derek wasn't fazed, at least not the way I thought he would've been. Instead, he looked at me as if he were trying to solve a puzzle for the fifth time that kept growing in size and complexity. "You're really something. What do I do with you?"

I tipped the glass of french bubbles into my painted red lips, and it spiraled down my throat with a delicate burn. Just then, a waiter took his post in front of a pillar. His eyes drooped with dread as he carried a tray of appetizers.

"You could get me that salmon and cream cheese snack thingy, please," I pleaded, and my hand fell softly on his tailored wrist.

He turned his head in the direction of my jerked thumb. "He's right next to you," he said. "I think you have the capability of getting it yourself."

"I've taken two already, and I can feel his eyes judging me."

"You shouldn't have so many of those things, did you see the amount of cream cheese they put on one cracker?" Derek protested but retrieved the snack anyway. His gaze shifted to the entrance of the gallery when a group of people arrived.

"They're here." His cold fingertips landed at the small of my back.

The crowd of three men and two women appeared to be around his age, early to mid-thirties, and all I could see were a set of widened eyes when they spotted me beside him. The blonde woman, who was previously occupied staring longingly at Derek, turned to whisper into her friend's ear. With scrutiny, they analyzed my frame before fixing up an admirable smile.

Derek introduced me to a pool of new faces and names that I wouldn't remember. They seemed refrained from expressing themselves and speaking freely around me, and I instantly knew that I intimidated them. One of his colleagues', a redheaded, six-foot-four man from Washington state, wasn't doing an outstanding job keeping his eyes off me.

The entire atmosphere was so strange and unnerving that I requested that we move around the gallery, hoping that the art would be enough of a distraction from his socially-awkward friends. But, I knew that they probably weren't socially-awkward; instead, a distinctive feeling crept up on me that Derek wanted them to be intimidated. He wanted to show me off to his friends, or maybe they knew something about me that I didn't.

I learned that the redheaded man's name was Paul, and he nitpicked at all the intricacies of the abstract work surrounding us. Derek had no issues participating in the scrutiny of Paul's commentary, which confused me. I couldn't tell if Derek liked the artwork or fucking hated it and just wanted a place to channel his criticism.

A gregarious fit tore through the air as the men began to toss their opinions back and forth, recklessly. The women kept to themselves, every now and then, putting forward a conversation with me but subsequently withdrawing all interactions and mindlessly typing away at their phones or tugging at the arms of their dates. They didn't want to be here.

"I'll be back," I told Derek. I couldn't fathom missing the opportunity to appreciate the beautiful artwork on display for a set of unceremonious men.

I weaved through the exhibitions like a child in a toy store, clutching my jacket tightly around my arms. There was one canvas, so large that it covered half of the wall. It was an outline of a woman with closed eyelids, fat tears streaming from her face. From afar, it looked like pop art, fun, colorful, and child-like. But as I approached it, I quickly realized that it wasn't what it seemed.

The woman was composed of two sentences that looped over and over again.

Subject-verb-object. Man fucks woman.

Stunned into silence, I felt light-headed, so much so that I had no intruding thoughts or judgments. The painting was screaming, so I was mute.

The artist's concept, the portrayal of male possession, had triggered an endless stream of grueling memories that burnt my eyes of my past relationship. Nick. He wasn't the one that got away, but he should've been. He was the one that I had to get away from. In the duration of our two-year relationship and I devolved into his possession, merely a toy on his shelf that only existed if he decided that it deserved to exist.

Man fucks woman.

Nick fucks Aaliyah. Endlessly. Until so much of my dignity eroded that I was as fickle as a twig.

Someone approached me and stood next to me, but I was too enthralled to notice them. I could only feel the stranger's presence.

I whipped my head to the side, and Octavio entered my peripheral vision. A soft gasp billowed from my lips, and his steely blue eyes greeted me as they swarmed with animation.

He clad his lean figure in black slacks and a black tucked-in shirt.

"Oh, wow, hey," we said in unison, and before I knew it, I was wrapped up in a brief warm hug. It only felt appropriate and natural to hug him in greeting, and it looked like we were longtime friends catching up.

"I didn't think we'd run into each other," Octavio admitted with a polite smile.

"We didn't technically really run into each other. It was more like me standing here, looking at this amazing painting when you came to me," I smirked with the flash of my brows.

"Amazing?" Octavio shoved his finger at the artwork, his tone was laced with disgust. "You think this is good?"

Instinctively, I folded my arms across my chest. "Well, it is. What would you call it?"

"Una mierda." (Shit) He threw his hands up. The words rolled off his tongue like a slippery slope. I knew exactly what he said. In fact, those words were almost identical to Portuguese.

"Oh, come on! How is that bad? Look at the intricate detailing in writing and the fine print of paint," I argued. My eyes retraced every detail. The rough strokes of the acrylic paint and the delicate words. For a moment, I tried to see what he was seeing, but I couldn't.

"It's just...trash," he stated with a firm shrug as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

"This is clearly trying to send a message of how plenty of men view women. Of how prevalent the objectification of women is, and the artist was able to fit it into six words that give a more accurate representation than an essay." Like a leaking faucet, I felt myself running on about this topic for ages.

A short woman with salt and pepper slick back hair stalked over to the same exhibition we were arguing about. Her frail, polite presence immediately extinguished the flames of my anger. Octavio, who looked somewhat surprised, directed his attention to the woman.

"What a wonderful piece," the woman spoke, her dark brown eyes flashed with admiration. She turned towards Octavio. "Really great work Octavio, in fact, I think this could be one of your best pieces."

"Thank you, Linda, I appreciate it," he sent me an honest smile of gratitude. "How's your husband?"

I watched the two engage in a familiar conversation, and my mouth fell agape.

"My husband and I will be looking around the rest of the exhibitions, but this one is promising," Linda promised, turning on her short heel and walking away.

Octavio broke into a fit of laughter as soon as she left. He clutched his side as I shot him daggers with my eyes.

Eventually, a crowd of people circled around the painting, and Octavio pulled me to the side.

I gave his arm a quick smack. "I can't believe you! I feel so stupid," I whispered.

"That was a really good one—be honest!" he exclaimed with a toothy grin. "I couldn't help myself, the opportunity was there."

I breathed. "So, you made this?"

"Guilty."

"Well, I love it," I mumbled into the rim of my glass. "Impressive price tag on it too."

A few gallery guests inspected the work, most of them of a Senior age, but dressed from head to toe in old money. This gallery was one of the earliest for the district, but it was well-known across the United States. Elite if you could call it. It was insane to think that Octavio could even get his work in such a place, but then again, I shouldn't be surprised.

Here, an artwork with the original value of $200 could skyrocket to $20,000. I watched the art buyers ogle the $7,000 price tag without so much of a flinch.

I didn't notice how close I was standing beside Octavio until he brushed my forearm with his fingers slightly. He nudged me, trying to maintain an engaging look with the crowd of buyers around his work while still asking for my attention.

"You look great," he whispered.

I nudged him right back. "I tried to be the lady in red."

He chuckled and leaned in. "Mission accomplished. By the way, I'm glad you like it. Flattered, actually."

"Of course, but I didn't expect it to be so popular among older people—isn't this a bit 'out of their times'?" I wondered.

Octavio narrowed his eyes in thought before shaking his head. "No, uhm, I actually think it sits very well within their time. It is supposed to summarize the sexual objectification in women of all generations."

I took a sip of my champagne, listening to him intently. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

"Then again, there are also people that only buy art for social status. Usually, big hedge fund or Wall Street douchebags," Octavio said with contempt.

The first thing that came to mind was Derek and his colleagues. Derek liked expensive things, only because he knew he could afford but not because he wanted it. But, now that I thought about it, I realized that I never knew what else Octavio did outside of his studio.

"By the way," I began, pulling a curl behind my ear. "Is painting something full-time for you, or..."

"It's part of it, but I'm actually an art dealer. So, I work with museums, art institutions, nonprofits, galleries that want to locate certain pieces of art or artists, and I sell their art," he explained, his hands gesturing emphatically.

"So it sounds like the bridge between business and art," I said.

"Yeah, that's exactly it," he confirmed with a nod. His eyes were wide with excitement when he spoke of his job, and I could tell that without a doubt, he was in love with this world.

"What brought you here tonight?" he asked.

"I'm actually here with someone. He's somewhere here."

"Oh, cool." He shifted his weight into his other foot and smirked. "Boyfriend?"

Being "with" Derek had never accustomed me to hating the consistent relationship questions. Never did I know what to say.

I wet my lips. "No, it's uh—complicated."

He hummed with an all-knowing hum. "It's one of those, huh?"

"One of what?"

"Situationships."

"What is that?"

"You don't know what a situationship is? It's either the best thing or the worst thing, depending on how you see it and what you want. Basically, it's not a labeled relationship, more of a romantic or sexual "situation" between two people."

"Sounds like you've done your research," I said, impressed. "That's cute, but I don't think that's it."

"I've been in enough situationships to know one when I see one. I like them, of course, everyone likes them until they don't. Usually, it's one person that doesn't benefit equally."

"As much as I appreciate your wisdom, Dr. Phil, some relationships are hard to define."

Octavio sucked his teeth. "It's not that hard."

"And what do you know about defining relationships?"

He shrugged, his eyes provoking me. "I know for a fact that if you really liked him that much, you'd be talking to him a lot more than you're talking to me."

"I think I was more tricked into talking to you than voluntary."

"But you stayed."

"And I'm going."

I began walking to another exhibit when I was overwhelmed with the sudden itch for a smoke. I stopped midway, knowing that maybe Octavio had one. Suppressing my embarrassed smile at how quickly I returned to him, I skipped back beside him.

Octavio burst into a spurt of laughter. His typically brazen voice rang like an uncontrolled roar. My fingertips reached out and skimmed his wrist.

"Do you have a cigarette?" I asked, trying to suppress the smile threatening to creep onto my lips.

"I dunno, do I?" He winked and pulled out a single cigarette stick from the back of his pocket. "It's my emergency smoke."

I held it with delicate fingers. "Is there a place I can smoke here?"

"Second floor, balcony," he said. "I'll show you."

"Don't you need to be down here, pulling more pranks on your clients?" I teased.

"I would hardly call that a prank, you should see my sculpture pranks."

"Not sure if I'm up for the kind of trauma that could bring," I said.

"The only trauma you're implying is nudity, and Aaliyah, I think deep down, you might just appreciate seeing me naked for once."

"Sure, after a few potent drinks."

Octavio grinned and led me up the winding staircase and onto the second floor. This floor was much smaller in size but seemingly more exclusive than the regular exhibition downstairs. Octavio was able to get me through the security guard and escorted me into what appeared to be a private exhibition with select pieces of grand artwork on display.

Octavio greeted the two buyers present in the room with optimistic words before opening the glass door that led to the balcony, allowing me in first. A soft breeze blew my toffee curls back, and I placed the cigarette between my lips. He was close enough to shield the wind away from the stick with one hand, and ignite it with the other.

My eyes fluttered shut as I took a long hard drag, my shoulders relaxing. The smoke spiraled like a serpent, and I playfully blew the smoke onto Octavio's face.

He didn't fan it away, welcoming the scent with a lazy beam.

"Who knew it'd be this hard to quit," I said.

"Tell me about it." Octavio stole the cigarette from my grip with a cheeky smile, drew some. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Right," I nodded.

We laughed in mutual acknowledgment of our hypocrisy. Octavio passed the cig back to me, his eyes glued on mine.

"You know what?" I suddenly spoke. "Let's quit again."

"Like, quit smoking?"

"Yep. This is the last cigarette, and after that,"—I cut the air with my hands—"no more!"

"I said that way too many times." He let out a wry chuckle.

"Me too, but I haven't met anyone so far eligible enough to be my 'quit smoking' buddy." I rubbed my hands after I had passed the stick back to him.

"Oh, is that so? Sounds more like an exclusive 'let's avoid premature death' party."

"That's about right. Brilliant, isn't it? I mean, think about it, we can both relate—we know what it's like to crave it."

"Sounds like you just want to be around me," Octavio said.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm serious right now."

He put his hands up, surrendering. "Yeah, yeah, it's a bit like the blind leading the blind but, I guess we can try. How does it work?"

I shrugged. "I dunno."

"I guess first things first, give me your phone."

"Uhm, no, why?"

"So, I can give you my number since you asked so much," Octavio joked. Reluctantly, I handed him my phone, and he added his number and a cigarette emoji next to his name.

"Octavio, don't put that emoji if my family saw that they'd think you're my drug dealer."

"Nicotine is a drug, and I have supplied you with that, so I'm sure I'm not far from being one," he said.

I crossed my arms and pulled my lips into a frown. Octavio snickered, changing the emoji to the Argentinian flag.

"And now?" I asked, putting out the cigarette on the railing.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Any time either of us feels the need to smoke, we call each other."

"Won't it just make the other want to smoke too?" I wondered.

"I don't know. Let's call this a trial run to see if it works. Deal?" He extended his hand out to me.

I grabbed his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Deal." He was so warm even in the cold sweeps of wind, and I wanted to hold onto him... at least until we got inside.

Crap, Derek. He was probably looking for me, but he would've called me in the last forty or so minutes I was gone. Admittedly, it bothered me a bit that he didn't even bother to call or drop a text. Did my absence make any difference at all?

Octavio and I entered the building again, his hand applying a small amount of pressure on my back, and he urged me inside.

"I'm hungry," he said.

Speaking of hungry, I hadn't eaten a proper meal since the afternoon, and as if his words were a trigger to my digestive system, my stomach rumbled. Blood rushed to my cheeks.

Octavio laughed, staggering backward.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you're hungry too." He raked his fingers through his dark hair.

"Yeah, a bit," I lied.

"Let's get outta here then," Octavio said with a casual shrug.

Instinctively, I looked around as if Derek were overhearing our conversation.

"I can't just leave, I'm here with someone. And, you're working," I said.

"The paintings are gonna sell anyway, with or without me. Also, this so-called dude isn't really around anyway," Octavio uttered.

I felt morally obligated to stay and stick it through with Derek. Idle around with his vapid, judgmental friends. But, that's what I had always been. The obligated girlfriend, seeing someone because she felt she had to, not because she wanted to. At that moment, I realized that that wasn't something I wanted.

"So, what do you say?" he continued, his voice soft and tranquil.

His eyes were a calming blue, the kind of blue that if you stared at it long enough, you would be enthralled therapeutic hue. Cheaper than any therapist I had ever paid for.

"Run away with me."