I am off the bed, darting past you.
“Come back here, X.” It is a command.
I disobey. Run. Run. Slam into the silver door of the elevator, slam a palm against the call button. I hear your step down the hall.
“X, I said come back here!”
I do not reply. I am breathless, chest aching, lungs burning. I cannot breathe.
I am dizzy.
The elevator arrives, and I lurch onto it, stab at the button that will take me to the lobby. As the doors slide closed, I see you.
Bare from the waist up, wearing only slacks. Your chest glistens with sweat. Your hair is in disarray. You are furious.
Your hands stop the door from closing, and panic seizes me. But instead of freezing me, this time, it spurs me to action.
“Why do you never treat me the way you treat her?” I hear my voice say, breathless, shrill, nearly sobbing. “Why don’t you fuck me the way you do her?”
“She’s an apprentice—” you start.
I see Rachel behind you, peeking around the corner. Shamelessly naked, still. Curious.
“So?”
“You’re worth more than she is. She’ll only ever be a Bride. You’re . . . You are Madame X.”
Rachel, behind you, is livid. Tears fill brown eyes. “You bastard.” This is hissed.
You whirl. “Rachel, wait.”
You seem almost human, suddenly. Caught between Rachel and me.
“But I’m not worth being naked with. Not worth behaving as if you want to be with me. As if you enjoy fucking me, like you obviously do her.” I cannot stop the words. It is an avalanche. “I am just a possession to you, Caleb. You keep me because you like owning me, not because you like me. Not because you enjoy me.”
None of this makes any sense. I am jealous, but I hate you. Yet I also need you, want you, desire to be treated by you the way you treat Rachel. I want— I do not know.
Nothing I want makes any damned sense.
I do not understand myself.
What do I want?
Freedom.
I shove you. Hard. Surprised, you stumble backward, and I hear Rachel gasp in surprise.
The elevator door closes.
“God fucking damn it!” I hear you shout this louder than I’ve ever heard you speak before.
I am cognizant of nothing but my own gasping, ragged breath as I cross the lobby, and I know I’m sobbing, but I don’t care.
For once, the noise of Manhattan does not paralyze me.
In four-inch Gucci heels, I run.
In a custom couture dress, I flee.
There is only one place in this city that I know, and somehow I find it.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I have no money for the admission fee. But when I arrive at the ticket counter, there is a little old black woman behind the desk.
She recognizes me. “Oh, it’s you! I haven’t seen you in . . . oh, years!”
“Hi . . .” I don’t know her name. But I know her, it feels like. “It has been a long time.”
“Where’s Mr. Indigo?”
“I . . . I came without him.”
A look crosses her face. “Oh.” She tilts her head sideways. “Honey, you all right?”
I shake my head, unable to summon a lie. “No. No. I need . . . I need to go in, but I forgot money. I don’t have any money. And I need—I need to go in.”
“It’s pay what you want here,” she says. “Even if you got a dollar I can let you in.”
“I have nothing. Not a penny.”
A moment of hesitation. Then she reaches into her back pocket, withdraws some crumpled green bills, stuffs two into her register drawer, and hands me a ticket. “On me today, sweetie. You used to love this place. You was here all the time, back then. Every day.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
She waves her hand. “Ain’t nothin’.”
“You don’t know what this means to me.”
Neither do I, I don’t think. But I go in, and discover that I know the way. My feet carry me to the painting.
There is a bench, low lighting. White walls. My painting is not prominently displayed, just one of many, and not an important one. I take a seat on the bench, ankles crossed beneath me.
I stare at her.
Portrait of Madame X.
She possesses such poise, such effortless strength. The curve of her neck, the strength in her arm, the calm expression on her face.
I stare for a long, long time. Find calm in the painting, finding some measure of strength.
There is one more to see. I wander the halls, and somehow cannot find it.
There is a guard, tall, black skin so dark it glistens. “Excuse me, sir,” I ask. “Where is the Starry Night?”
I receive a blank stare. A shrug.
A nearby visitor glances at me, a middle-aged woman. “Honey, you’re at the Met. Starry Night is at the MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Just down the road a bit, in Midtown.”
I thank the woman and return to the bench in front of the Sargent.
Thinking.
I have memories, distinct memories of being here with you, and you wheeled me from this to the Starry Night.
But how can that be? They aren’t at the same museum.