Page 1 of Aries

1. ASH

Everyone had one thing on their mind. Sex. When they were going to get it. Who they were going to have it with. And what limits they’d reach.

For me, I had apps on my phone for mind-numbing fun, as for who, the more I thought about it, the pickier I became. I liked spur of the moment situations, the type where I locked eyes with a stranger, and without the thrill of an app to tell us if we were compatible.

Sipping from a champagne flute, I stared at a painting in the gallery. This wasn’t my scene, but I had to mingle with the rich people of the city. The art buyers of the world. They were the ones who funded my life.

Naomi, the gallery curator, and a close friend was always close enough to make sure I was always smiling. My tendency to shut down in these scenarios was high. I never wanted to talk to anyone or entertain their faux art talk, treating them like they knew what they were talking about.

“Big buyer is looking at your large blue piece,” she said.

I rolled my eyes as I turned to look at her. “Let me guess, they see the passion, and they want to talk to the artist?”

She pressed a hand to her face as she snorted back laughter. “He mentioned a playfulness.”

Playful was a perfect descriptor for me, but around art snobs, anything I deemed playful, they took as serious. It was almost like anything I said in sarcasm was taken as fact, and I hadn’t had enough champagne to feel a buzz.

Naomi led me to the potential buyer. A man with a bright green silk scarf around his neck took a step back and looked me over before going in for a very European two kiss greeting. I hated it. Art was my vocal cords, it’s the way I spoke to the world, every other interaction was fake.

“I’m Reum Peterson,” he said. “Your art is incredible. There’s whimsy, wonder, and—” he snapped his fingers in the air, searching for some more alliterative buzzwords. “Wackiness.”

I forced a big smile on my face. “That’s what I was going for. You have a keen eye, Mr. Peterson.”

“Call me Reum.”

And for the rest of the evening, acting like everything they said was true to the art I’d created had worn me out. Although it was worth it for the bids people had put in on some of my art. Nobody told me when I was starting out and interning how selling your art was like selling bits and pieces of your soul to the highest bidder. Thankfully, these events were frequent for me as I only showed one collection a year.

Walking home through lower Manhattan, I enjoyed the splash of cool air whip my face at the end of each block. The middle of the night was special to me, it was when inspiration struck. People on their way out of apartments, getting into taxi cabs in secret, everyone on their way to indulge in the carnal urge to fuck.

The vibrant neon signs were cause for pause as I basked in the color of each and every one. They were like sun rays, but in the middle of the night, and with my eyes closed, I could’ve been absolutely anywhere. Out in space, most of the time, putting myself in a space shuttle and getting butterflies as my body simulated the tickle of excitement that would happen if I did get to visit space.

Three sharp knocks broke me out of the trance.

At the shop window with the sign, a man stood inside. It took my eyes a second to adjust to see him, tall, broad shoulders, and piercing green eyes. He waved me inside.

“We’re about to close, but if you’re looking for something small, I can fit you in,” he said as I walked inside.

It only took me a second to realize where I’d found myself. The leather waiting area by the window, the walls decorated in art, and the partition walls further back. “I—” I looked at the man in his half-zipped up hoodie, showing off tattoos on his chest, up his neck and caressing the curves of his chin. “Um.” I was lost in his art.

He pushed a hand over his slicked grey hair. “Sorry, I thought you were looking in,” he said. “We’re not scary. Well, there’s Jenny, she’s a little scary, but she produces some of the best realism tattoos you’ll find on the East Coast.”

My eyes couldn’t find anywhere safe to settle. There was directly into his eyes, but that level of intimacy was reserved for any man I deemed worthy of playful with me. Then there was his chest, but I didn’t want to catch an accusation of being a pervert.

“You don’t have any tattoos, do you?” he said, catching my eye as he looked me over. “You’re an artist.”

“Huh?”

He reached out and took my hand. His warm touch could’ve melted me. “Your fingers, red paint stains like a bitch. And there’s a—a little black and dark blue there too.” He went into a full analysis as he inspected my hands. “What do you paint?” he asked. “Or am I misreading the entire situation, and this is from some home improvement.”

“I—I paint,” I said, feeling myself begin to sweat. “I do a lot of throwing art and splatter stuff. It’s chaotic, but freeing.”

“Mhmm.” He pressed his tongue between his lips for a quick lick. “I don’t get chaos from you. I get—someone who—you—you’re not being completely true to yourself. Are you?” Heput my hands together and placed both of his hands around them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My name’s Gael,” he said, shaking my hands with the way he held them. “And this is my tattoo shop.”

“I’m Ash,” I said.

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