Page 5 of Morsel

Chapter 3

I wring my fingers together, numbing my nerves. Sway Gallery sits like a birthday cake, the windows brightly-lit candles, people happily gathering inside to celebrate Mona’s art.

I keep the street between us, my body hidden in the shadows. My stiff button-up shirt itches my neck, and I run my fingers around the collar in an attempt to loosen it. Mona made me come here. I’m uneasy, and yet, I’m ready for her.

I cross the street and reach for the door handle, but then I freeze. A small paper sign is taped next to the door in bold typewriter letters, the edge of the last word smeared with a fingerprint: Enter At Your Discretion. A red umbrella is painted above the words, the tool shielding the ominous warning. It reminds me of a roadblock outside of a haunted house: Enter if you dare.

“You going in, man?” a male voice asks just as a cloying waft of perfume registers. I don’t turn around to look at the man and woman I know are behind me. A feminine chuckle flutters nervously in the air, and I sigh heavily. I’m already irritated by the crowd here.

It will be worth it though. It has to be worth it.

Mona is worth it.

I hold my breath and shove myself inside.

Spotlights illuminate each piece of art. In the far corner, a wheel of white bras and blood-dripped dollar bills spins, and in the back, there’s some sort of circle, a wreath maybe. I inch closer and realize that the wreath is made of mannequin limbs. On the walls, there are monochrome photographs of dismembered mannequin pieces too: dull lips sawed from a face; a plastic hand in the shape of a circle; a head with a gaping hole in the mouth.

My heart races. This is good. Maybe she destroyed the mannequin limbs because she wanted more from them.

Maybe she is exactly what I want.

The onlookers hold their wine glasses and whisper to each other, pointing dainty fingers at each piece. A sticky film of sweat covers me. I don’t like people. Being at a party or in a group feels like being outside of my own skin. Even if I tell myself that Mona’s art is a sign that we’re meant for each other, it doesn’t change the fact I don’t belong here.

“Wine, sir? Or perhaps a craft beer?” a server asks. I examine his drink tray. “May I interest you in the open bar next to?—”

Mona told me to meet her in the bathroom.

“Where’s the toilet?” I ask.

“The Elimination Craftsmanship is in the hallway,” he says. “The only door. You can’t miss it.”

Elimination Craftsmanship? What the fuck?

I walk rapidly to the back of the gallery. I stomp down the hallway, and I see the only door. It’s comically huge, like the gallery owner—or Mona, I guess—made it big just so the user would feel smaller.

A sign is posted next to the door handle: Occupied.

“Great,” I mutter.

I tap my thumbs on my side. I pace back and forth in front of the door. A few gallery visitors gawk at me with upturned noses like I’m going to piss or shit myself. I don’t care though; let them think that. You can’t change the way a person feels about you, but you can wait for the perfect woman to meet you in the bathroom.

Ten minutes pass. I don’t hear anything through the bathroom door.

She said to meet her here, didn’t she?

I check my screenshot of her personal ad again: Serious inquiries only.

I’m deadly serious. I’m here, aren’t I?

I knock, my knuckles pounding into the wood.

Nothing.

“Fuck it,” I say. I twist the handle, and the door swings open.

Shadows. A large sink. A toilet. The counter is covered in tealight candles, melted wax shimmering in the small metal cups, each flame’s light dancing on the walls, and it reminds me of a primitive gathering.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice says.

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