Page 8 of The Deer and the Dragon
I guess if I chose to tell her, I’d need to begin with day one. As with most tales, this domino effect had tipped into my life quite by accident. Unlike most stories, this one started on the sweaty streets of Buenos Aires.
I met my first escort on a failed attempt at escaping to the far side of the globe. One week out of college, crawling out of my skin with anxiety, and with no direction for my life, I’d clicked on a sponsored ad to teach English as a second language in Medellín, Colombia. I hadn’t given myself thechance to change my mind. I’d thrown everything I owned into a suitcase, found a subletter for my shitty basement unit on Craigslist, and gotten on a plane.
That was when I let hyper-independence take the wheel. I thought I could get a fresh start and get away from Caliban—but any reputable psychiatrist would have told me that psychosis isn’t something you can outrun.
I closed my eyes once more, wishing a cup of coffee would materialize in my hands. In the meantime, I’d enjoy the succulent warmth of the duvet cover, letting my cozy, trapped body heat transport me to dream-like memories of my year just above the equator.
I could still feel the baking sun on my skin when I thought of that day.
Except, unlike the cocoon of a comfortable bed, misery was all I felt.
DECEMBER 23, AGE 22
Sweat beaded along my upper lip. My feet were covered in blisters from the plastic rub of cheap shoes. I was desperate for a bottle of water and a cold shower. I’d been waiting for the bus in ninety-degree heat when a curious, pretty girl in Louis Vuitton heels paused at my side. They were chunky, tall boots that she’d paired with high-waisted black shorts, a black bralette as a top, and a cross-body bag with yet another designer logo, though I hadn’t been well versed enough in name brands at the time to know a Chanel bag when I saw one. She’d managed to make her wealth look sporty rather than stuffy, which was quite an accomplishment. Ten seconds of mental math estimated that I could sell the clothes off her back and buy three roundtrip tickets from Los Angeles to Bogotá.
She grinned at the sunburst tattoo on my right ring finger, breaking the silence. “I’ve been wanting to get a tattooon my hand,” she said, “but I hear they hurt like a bitch! And people say the ink falls out really easily. I rarely see hand tats in Buenos Aires. Most ink has kind of a thuggish reputation, I guess. It’s cool as hell, though.”
I returned the smile and lifted both hands. I had its counterpart on the opposite finger.
“Live by the sun, love by the moon,” I said, referring to the tiny, matching moon on my left ring finger. “It seemed so profound when I was eighteen.” I left out the part where the tiny finger tats had been too painful for me to dare return to a tattoo shop. My two celestial pieces of inky rebellion would have to suffice.
“And how old are you now?” she asked.
“I just turned twenty-two.”
“Sag or Capricorn?” She smiled. “I’m an Aquarius.”
Astrology wasn’t something I cared about, but I’d memorized enough about the signs to know where my dates fell. “Sagittarius. My birthday was the twenty-first.”
“Aw, we missed your golden birthday by a year. But you bagged a great astrological sign. Independent, adventurous, straight shooters. Our signs are super compatible for friendship.”
I nodded along, because that was all I could do.
Her accent was North American, but between her black-and-auburn hair, her golden skin, and an ambiguous almond to her eyes, she could have been from any side of the pond. If it weren’t for the heels, she would have been a full head and shoulders shorter than me, though I was average height by the most generous of North American estimations.
“You’re right. About the ink, that is,” I said, trying to steer the conversation into my more knowledgeable territories. “My tattoos stand out. And I don’t know how adventurous I am. I’m six months into this yearlong contract and I’m struggling. I wish I could say it was homesickness, but it’s more just…being a person. What about you? Do you live here? Visiting family?”
Her laugh was warm and easy. She tucked a lock of hairbehind her ear. “No, I’ve been staying in Montevideo. There’s a lot of money there. I was just here to meet a client for a few days. My friends and I rented a villa outside of Rio de Janeiro for Christmas, so I’ll head there next.”
“You travel for work, then? What do you do?”
She giggled. “My life’s a party. Back to Rio—have you been there yet?”
I looked around the sidewalk, glancing between the palm trees, the shiny buildings, the bustling pedestrians in their tailored suits, their flashy bags, their sunglasses that cost more than my rent. I couldn’t think of any reason she was talking to me. I shook my head. “No. I work a lot, and I haven’t had anyone to go with.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re working right now. And if you wait for someone else to define your life, you’ll never go anywhere or do anything,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You might be on to something,” I mused. I’d used my PTO to take the holiday off and gotten on the plane to visit Argentina with no plan in mind, but I certainly wasn’t making the most of it. Unhappiness had boarded the plane with me.
She frowned, fully soaking in how alone I was. I’m not sure if she was looking at the dishwater-blond hair, the evidence of ink, or the clear signs of economic disparity between me and the others on the sidewalk, but it was obvious that I didn’t fit in. If she hadn’t been so friendly, I would have been embarrassed standing next to someone in designer heels, and yet, nothing about her made me feel judged.
“What brings you to Buenos Aires?” she asked.
My lips twisted into the corner of my mouth. I looked between the pristine streets and the skyscrapers that lined the downtown. “Those travel accounts made it look so colorful and European. It just seemed like the kind of place I should visit while I’m in the area.”
She tilted her head, curtain of silky hair cascading over a sun-kissed shoulder. “What do you consider the area?”
Teachers had developed something of an unsavoryreputation among the expatriate communities, or so I’d learned in my six months overseas. We were the backpacking barrel scum of the international community. I didn’t have to tell her. She was a stranger at the bus stop. I could lie. I could tell her that I was a factory manager, a digital nomad, or that I worked at an embassy. But I had a feeling she wouldn’t believe me.
