Firebug

The cold marble counter presses against my lower back as I lean on it. I wear the same crop top he had complimented the first time we made love in his art studio. Had he noticed I was wearing it today? Probably not. Definitely not. Why did knowing that make the knot of anguish in the pit of my stomach tighten just a little more? After all I had done, one would imagine that the agony would dissipate and morph into something else, something numb, like the tough skin of a scar. I thought it had. But seeing him again made me realize that the wound still hurt. But not for long.

For almost a year, a gritty warehouse at the border of Ridgewood and BedStuy had been our secret meeting place. The lurid graffiti painted along the abandoned buildings and garages had felt scintillating. A burst of color after a very long train ride to the middle of nowhere Brooklyn signaled I was close—just a few more blocks to go before I was his. Just a few more blocks, and then he would devour me. Just a few more blocks and I would feel his naked chest against mine, his heartbeat thumping against me. The graffiti had become synonymous with the prickling excitement of what would come. On days when I craved him the most, my vision would blur, and the colors would bleed together into a riptide of passion, each hue igniting a different aspect of my yearning. 

Every Thursday afternoon, I used to go from Manhattan to his studio. There was no bed; it was a place where he could paint or photograph models. It had a view of the Manhattan skyline, and on a clear day, the setting sun would reflect beautifully off the buildings, creating dappled light that embraced the studio's walls. My gaze would fixate on those beautiful colors as I'd fall into the warm embrace of his arms on the floor, on a table, wherever he saw fit to take me. I adored the studio. I adored him.

Blane was the kind of man who would knock you off your feet at first sight. He was the most attractive man I had ever seen. His chiseled face was the first thing you noticed, followed by his strong shoulders. Then, your eyes would slowly lower to thighs thicker than my waist. He had been a hockey player and had the leg mass to prove it. His hair was dark, and his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of green, almost chartreuse. They always managed to catch the light in an otherworldly way. He looked like a god, a beautiful deity sent to earth to tease the human race.

The night we met, he was lounging on a bench in the backyard area of a dive bar on Metropolitan Avenue. He radiated an easy confidence that captivated me. I watched him from afar for the entire evening, hoping he would get up and dance or go to the bathroom, anything that would allow me to "accidentally" bump into him and strike up a conversation. But he remained seated, engrossed in a conversation with his friend. I had inched closer and closer throughout the night. His friend was monologuing, and I clung to the monosyllabic responses that he uttered. The timber of his voice was devastating, like a perfectly tuned cello. Every fiber of my being wanted to interrupt the conversation and introduce myself, but I couldn't. I was frozen, overwhelmed, and afraid that this man would soundly reject me. The thought crushed my heart. It should have been a warning sign. Eventually, I sat down and drank alone. My friends had left hours ago. Blane continued to sit there, casually chatting with his friend. I looked down into my beer mug and drowned in its amber hue. When I closed my eyes, I saw myself drowning in that lager, which felt like a relief compared to the black ocean of loneliness I usually drowned in. 

I heard the clearing of a throat and looked up to see him. He was standing over me with that impish smirk I would soon become infatuated with. He handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. There was no name, just numbers. I looked back up at him, and he was already turning to leave. I texted him immediately. I knew that's not how one plays the game, but it was too much to resist. He texted his name and address and told me to meet him at 4 PM on Thursday. Even if I had a regular job with nine to five hours, I would have quit on the spot. Nothing was stopping me from seeing him.

Our first meeting was overwhelming with information. Blane wasn't single; he had a husband, and they had been together for years. They were college sweethearts from Minneapolis who moved to New York together to pursue their careers as artists. They had an "understanding" and were in an open relationship, which was common among gay couples in the city. Monogamy was passé, a heteronormative construct in a patriarchal society…or something like that. I didn't care. All I wanted was to be with him, in whichever way he desired.

Thursdays would soon become the best day of the week, and the moments I spent with him were unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Until then, my life had been an arctic desert: cold and desolate. I grew up in a well-to-do family in Connecticut. There was a lot of old money and emotionless conversations at a dinner table far too large for three people. A revolving door of nannies raised me while my father made millions and my mother had nervous breakdowns. Eventually, my mother would become convinced that the nanny had committed some egregious offense and promptly dismissed them. They were never there long enough to get close to them. My parents stopped hiring new ones by the time I was eight.

I moved to New York City as soon as I grew up. It had always been my dream to live in New York. I had visited a few times as a child. In New York, even when you were alone, you didn't feel lonely. The constant noise from the traffic and the bustling crowds filled the void. You could be surrounded by people yet feel completely anonymous. It created the illusion of a fulfilling life. I didn't realize that it was like a drug, masking the emptiness inside me, until I met him.

Every Thursday, starting at 4 PM, I belonged to him. I loved every moment of it. I didn't know I could feel so complete, so much. Feelings of lust, happiness, wonder, and love had always felt foreign to me. Yet, nestled in a studio with exposed brick, piping, and marble countertops, I experienced every imaginable emotion. I felt alive, and it was all because of Blane. I loved him

I couldn't stop thinking about him. Thursday couldn't come fast enough. I'd be almost hysterical on Wednesday night because I was so close, too close. The idea of having to sleep another night before seeing him felt like a punishment I wouldn't wish on anyone. I ached all over when I wasn't with him. Even my cuticles were throbbing with irritation and itching just for him - to cling to his skin, to feel his lips on mine, to know I was his, even if only for a few hours.

Being in that studio for those few hours felt like I was transported to another dimension where my life was beautiful. It was like a dream. After we finished, he would walk me back to the train. He'd kiss me goodnight, and then his face would change into an unfeeling mask. It was like snapping back into reality. He would keep walking past the subway entrance, and I would go down the stairs and make my way to my apartment. That's when the yearning would start again and intensify until Wednesday evening. I would always feel like I was on the verge of insanity by then. Thursday morning light would bring a sense of relief that the day had finally arrived.

I had been okay with being his secret. I was happy just to be with him. He made it clear that we would spend Thursday evenings together, and that's it. It was made clear from the start that I was to be kept a secret. He was breaking the "rules" he and his husband had set. Casual encounters were okay, but they couldn't see someone regularly without involving the other. I'm ashamed to admit I was proud when Blane told me he didn't want to share me with his husband. My cheeks flushed as he pulled me in for a kiss and slowly caressed the growing bulge in my pants.

As he walked me back to the train one night, he stopped to kiss me, the same kiss he always gave me before I left. It was the same kiss that always preceded the mask of indifference that his face would morph into when he was done with me. However, on this particular night, that face didn't make an appearance. There was something else in his face. Was it longing? Was it love? To this day, I replay that moment in my head over and over. I clung to that look as the sign that he was allowing me to express myself. This was my moment to say it. "I love you."

I never saw someone look as terrified as he did at that moment. His expression shifted from terror to dismay as he took several steps back and began walking away. I followed him, apologizing for misreading the situation and admitting my mistake. I told him I was an idiot and shouldn't have said that. He started to jog, but I kept up. Then he sprinted. I chased him, screaming that I was sorry. He made sudden turns down crowded streets to lose me. Eventually, he did. 

I ran up and down one block after another, trying to find him. I didn't know where he lived. I foolishly asked shop owners and restaurant hosts if they had seen a man who looked like him. The panic must have been palpable on my face. They solemnly shook their heads, pitying me.

He never responded to another text. I went to the studio dozens of times. He wasn't there. I went on days that weren't our day. He was never there. He never went back. I knew because I had asked my parents for a loan and rented studio space near his. I was there every day for a week. I watched through a crack in the door. He never came back. 

After that, I collapsed. The police found me wandering the streets, screaming his name. I was hysterical and ended up being taken to Bellevue, where they called my parents. I was speaking gibberish, with his name being the only word they could understand. My parents then took me back to Connecticut, where I felt incredibly alone. I realized that I had always been alone, but for a moment, it felt like I wasn't. The darkness became overwhelming, and there were days when even breathing was a struggle. Life felt devoid of light, warmth, and color. I missed the warmth of his body and the joy of the few precious hours I got to spend with him. I longed for the graffiti and light that surrounded me when I was near him. I yearned for it so much.

I fell into a miserable routine in Connecticut. I'd hear my parents bicker, watch them destroy themselves with alcohol, then listen to Fox News at a deafening volume. One evening, my mother fell asleep, and my father passed out on the sofa. A cup of scotch was on the table beside him, and a lit cigar was in his hand. The ash was collecting in a small mound on the ground. I watched it from my seat. It had been an awful night. My parents had told me I was being childish. It was time to get over whatever pushed me over the edge and move on. I had seen every psychiatrist in Connecticut. The cocktail of medication I was on made me feel like a zombie. My parents were sympathetic when I first came home, but then I became a nuisance.

I was taking up space, and they were embarrassed to tell their friends that I had moved back home after a mental collapse. They informed me at dinner that evening that I was to leave by the end of the month. Mother went to bed, and my father went to the living room with his vices. I watched as the ashes piled higher, the cigar slipped from my father's hand onto the carpet, and it caught flame. The warmth, the light, and the color—the amber hue—reminded me of the lager I was drowning in when he came into my life. Tears streamed down my face as the flames grew. They filled the void inside. 

I stayed in the house for a dangerously long time. I thought about not leaving, but something compelled me to the front door. I called the fire department, but the house and my parents were gone by the time they arrived. I had told the police I was sleeping, then smelled the smoke and got out as soon as possible. It was ruled an accident. I was now a millionaire, inheriting everything my parents had. I left the police station, took a cab to the Metro North train station, and returned to New York.

The papers call me Firebug. Since moving back to New York, I've burned down twelve buildings. I started with small warehouses and moved on to larger commercial buildings. The fire fills the cold darkness for just a few hours, like he did. It's a temporary fix like he was—just a few hours when the heat and light induce feelings other than the cold loneliness of my life.

I couldn't stop walking past his art studio. It had been on my target list, but I couldn't bring myself to set it aflame. It was a place filled with memories of our passion, memories I was afraid of losing. The thought of those memories turning into a mound of ash haunted me.

Until I saw him walk in one Thursday afternoon with someone. Another man. I knew it wasn't his husband. You can tell when someone is the fun little secret. He hadn't moved. He had just taken a break from the studio long enough to lose the stalker, I'm sure he thought.

He thought wrong.

He had walked his lover to the train like he used to do with me. He kissed him, his face morphed into an unfeeling piece of shit, and then he walked away. Until I emerged from the corner and said hello. The terror on his face was rivaled only by the look he made when I told him those three fatal words. Then, I clubbed him with a bottle and dragged him back to the studio. 

He's slumped over in the chair I've tied him to. Blood trickles down his head from the blow with the bottle. And he still looks beautiful.

The cold marble bothers me. I want heat. I want the darkness to go away. Forever.

We're both covered in kerosene. One match, and we're gone. Then, the heat will consume me. I'll finally feel the warmth I've longed for, and he'll be no one else's. We'll both perish in this studio where he used to use me. It's a fitting end to this twisted, one-sided love affair.