Page 6 of Alone With You in the Ether

“Amazing they even call this art, isn’t it? I could do this. Hell, a six-year-old could do this.” The Husband’s gaze slid to hers. “I bet you could do it much better.”

Regan estimated his dick to be average-sized, and while that wasn’t necessarily problematic, the fact that he probably didn’t know what to do with it was. A pity, as he was handsome enough. He had a pleasant face. She guessed that he was unhappily married to his college sweetheart. She would have guessed high school girlfriend, given how that was relatively standard for people with his Minnesotan drawl, but he seemed like a late bloomer. She caught the faint pitting from acne scars on his forehead, which was a detail that most people probably missed—but they wouldn’t have missed it in the tenth grade, and Regan didn’t, either.

She had a couple of choices. One, she could fuck him in a bathroom stall. Always an option, and never not worth consideration. She knew where to find privacy if she wanted it, and he seemed like he’d probably strayed once or twice already, so there wouldn’t be a lot of easing his conscience beforehand.

Of course, if she wanted mediocre dick, that was deplorably easy to find without pickingthismediocre dick. Out of all the things in the museum to focus his attention, the fact that Regan was his object of choice said far more about him than it did about her.

It could be a diverting ten minutes. But then again, she’d had more fun in less.

“Jackson Pollock was highly influenced by Navajo sand painting,” Regan said, her own gaze still affixed to the painting. “With sand,” she explained, “the process is just as important as the finished product; in fact, more so. Sand can blow away at any moment. It can disappear in a matter of hours, minutes, seconds, so the process is about the moment of catharsis. The reverence is inmakingart—in being part of its creation, but then leaving it open to destruction. What Native Americans did with sand, Jackson Pollock did with paint, which is perhaps an empty rendition of it. In fact, he never openly admitted to adopting their techniques—which makes sense, as it’s far closer to appropriation than it is to an homage. But couldyoudo it?”

She turned to look at The Husband, sparing him a disinterested once-over.

“Sure, maybe,” she said, and his mouth twitched with displeasure.

The art is always different up close, isn’t it? she thought about saying, but didn’t. Now that he knew she was a bitch, he wouldn’t bother pretending to listen.

Eventually the tour ended, as all tours did. The Husband left with The Wife without having fucked any docents that day (that she knew of, though the night was still young). Regan readied herself for the next tour, feeling a buzz in her blazer pocket that meant Marc had found the underwear she’d left for him.

Everything was so cyclical. So predictable. At one point, Regan’s court-appointed psychiatrist had asked her how she felt about being alive,

the narrator:That whole thing was honestly so stupid.

and Regan had wanted to answer that even when it was never exactly the same, it seemed to follow a consistent orbit. Everything leading to everything else, following the same patterns if you happened to look closely enough. Sometimes Regan felt she was the only one looking, but she’d given the doctor a more tolerable answer and they’d both gone home satisfied, or something. Mostly Regan had felt thirsty, a result of her recent lithium increase. Dehydrate even a little and the pills would gladly offer her the shakes.

“Saint George and the Dragon,” Regan said, pointing out the painting to the next tour. A visiting family’s teenage son was staring at her breasts, and so was his younger sister. There’s no rush, Regan wanted to tell her. Look how warped the Medieval works are, she wanted to say, because there’s no perspective; because once upon a time, men looked at the world, took in all its beauty, and still only saw it flat.

Not much has changed, Regan thought to assure the girl. They see you closer than you are, but you’re further from reach than either you or they can imagine.

Aldo lived in a building of loftsthat had once been occupied by a printing company in the early twentieth century. Initially he’d lived closer to the University of Chicago, on the city’s south side, but restlessness had driven him north to the South Loop, and then slightly east to Printer’s Row.

setting:Printer’s Row is a neighborhood south of the Chicago downtown area known as the Loop. Many buildings in this area were once used by printing and publishing businesses but have since been converted to residences.

It was warm this evening, the air still playing host to remnants of summer’s humidity, and Aldo opted to take advantage of an evening run. He didn’t live particularly far from the lake path

the narrator, an overzealous cubs fan:Nowhere in the city of Chicago is ever too far from the lake path!

but he often preferred to run on city streets. The beat of his stride against pavement was too similar to a pulse sometimes. Without interruption, it was disquieting. Made him too conscious of his breathing.

That, and the path was often occupied.

After his run was shadow boxing, bag work, occasional sparring. Aldo wasn’t training for anything, as such, but he supposed he was ready if it came. He’d always been naturally wiry and thin

the narrator:One of them skinny little shits like my cousin Donnie, eh?

and lacking much in the way of ego or temper. Generally speaking, Aldo was unlikely to get into any sort of street fight, much less a formal boxing ring. He just liked the reminder that, from time to time, he retained the option of adrenaline and pain.

After three or so hours he’d come home, locate a couple of chicken breasts, probably some spinach, and definitely some garlic, for which he didn’t use a press. (Diced garlic was an outrage, as his father had told him many times, an abomination for its lack of taste. When it came to garlic, Masso said, it would have to be crushed or whole—no exceptions.)

Few people ever came to Aldo’s apartment, but the ones who did had commented without exception on the sparseness of his possessions. It was an open-air loft with red Ikea cabinets and modern stainless-steel appliances, and Aldo owned exactly one pot and one pan. Two knives: a Santoku knife and a paring knife. His father had always said that was all anyone ever needed. Aldo did not own a can opener or an ice tray. Hedidown a pasta maker, though he preferred to make ravioli or tortellini the way his nonna had insisted. Adalina Damiani had taught both her son and her grandson to cook, but while Masso found cooking to be a religious experience, Aldo considered it something best reserved for special occasions, or homesickness. Though, in his experience, most people considered religion precisely the same way.

On nights when Aldo couldn’t sleep (i.e., most of them), he would head up to the roof to light whatever remained of the joint still languishing in his jacket pocket. He specifically chose the type of marijuana reserved for bodily aches and mindlessness, soothing the prattling going on at the back of his head. His bones would cease their frantic motions for the evening, and inevitably his body would buzz, searching for something new to fill its vacancies.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present… Aldo Damiani’s thoughts!

Buzz. Bees. The honeybee’s wings flapped 11,400 times per minute, which was what created the buzzing sound. Bees were known for industriousness and organization; see also, the phrase ‘worker bee.’ That, plus determination; a beeline. Aldo was similarly single-minded, even if he was many-thoughted. He floated out on an exhale, adrift and out to sea.

He would have to try something different tomorrow, since his problem solving had not been particularly fruitful that day. He had a number of favorite places within the hive of the city, and typically bounded around between them. The top floor of the public library was an atrium called the Winter Garden, though Aldo couldn’t understand why. There was no particular season involved, but there was a pleasing vastness, a certain proximity to the heights and the heavens, and it was frequently empty. The concrete beams lofting up the glass ceiling would descend on him in hexagonal shadows, and if he positioned himself correctly beneath them, perhaps something new would occur to him. Otherwise, there was always the Lincoln Park Zoo, or the art museum. It was often quite busy, but to the right eye, it still contained places to hide.

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