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Chapter 7

7

TATIANA

H aving avoided the sticky subject of Ellie Matthews for the whole day, Tatiana finally sits down to paint. Picking out the brushes, her thoughts slowly, quietly, settle down on the tracks leading towards the passionately avoided subject. Ellie's hand— she took all her gold rings off and then…

"Now you'll get what you deserve."

Oh my god…

She shakes her head, attempting to focus instead on her art, but to no avail. Last night is begging, low on its knees, to be touched. Tatiana runs her hand through her disarrayed hair, gazing blankly at the half-filled canvas. It's the sketch she made some time ago coming to life as a painting, the river banks filled by gentle colors stand ready as background, waiting to be completed. The longer Tatiana looks at her work, the more accusatory its glance appears. It is a dead thing looking back at her.

Feeling in no reasonable headspace to create, she gets up to make some coffee, dragging herself towards the kitchen. Opening the fridge, however, she realizes she hasn't bought any milk, having to abandon the idea—black coffee depresses her spirits. Resigned, she reaches for her phone, always a delectable distraction from any worry. Something nudges her to give Ellie's new exhibition another look, even though the subject clamors in her mind with a pulsing, swollen nervousness. She caves in.

Looking through the gallery of the event, she slowly sinks into herself. The paintings she scorned so much are not half as bad as she remembers them to be. Their somber ambience calls to the viewer with a siren-like appeal, well fitting for a dream landscape. Tatiana knits her eyebrows together, thoroughly searching for the reason for her aggravated state last night. Her opinions wriggle like live fish caught in the net of inconsistency, struggling and squirming to stay alive, confronted with the harshness of breathing. She desperately doesn't want to admit her mistake, even to herself, yet she cannot find many conceptual or technical faults within Ellie's numerous paintings. Their only possible flaw could be blandness, perhaps. But she doesn't want to go down that road, leading to nowhere. She turns the phone off, bitter.

The lack of milk upsets her but craving something cozy, she settles for milk-less tea. Waiting for the water to boil, the images of last night show up. They come in bursts, little fireworks of memories plaguing her mind. Ellie's soft voice rings in her ears, restless and menacing.

"Come now for me, Tatiana."

Tatiana doesn't want to think about what they did, and feeling hopelessly tangled up in her thoughts, she decides to reach out to an old friend. They were supposed to reconnect for a long time now, but each having their own constant professional hurdles to jump over, neither made the time to reach out.

"Marcel?" she says into the phone, hope dancing around her voice.

"Hey! Haven't heard from you in a long time!" He sounds sunny like usual, making Tatiana feel warmly embraced.

"I know, I'm sorry," Tatiana admits, "I was hoping we could go swimming tonight?"

Having made the evening plans, she sits down to face her stubborn canvas once more. The perspective of cutting through the cold swimming pool water slowly relaxes her nerves, knowing that relief will come soon.

She picks up her brush, feeling ready to advance the painting. Thin webs of sketches lay covered by paint, here and there still showing their little dark veins. Tatiana came to like the river she created, its stormy water has a delicate quality to it, almost feminine. A woman whose thoughts seem to storm, she sings to herself, thinking over the next strokes of paint. Little spirits of abandoned clothes soon populate the wind-dragged grass, stretching out their sleeves and legs. Proud of the flow of her work, Tatiana notices an unusual-for-her softness in all this, her brush blurs the harsh borders of color, giving the painting a new, impressionistic quality. She sits back, perplexed, and a new thought begins to creep around her mind. Shadows of premonition tingle her eyes, recognizing Ellie's style. Scornful, she gets away from the painting, having to begin preparing for her outing either way.

She looks around her disheveled bedroom for the swimsuit she stashed away somewhere a long time ago, coming back from some trip or other. The old love for swimming begins flowing through her veins anew, excitement lightening her step. She hasn't gone out to swim with Marcel in what seems like ages, since both their careers began picking up pace.

The doorbell rings, just as she manages to dig the swimsuit out from underneath her bed.

"Like the old days," says Marcel, showing Tatiana to his car.

He came to pick her up to celebrate the tradition, even though these days Tatiana owns a car. She smiles, proud of how far they both managed to come.

"Like the old days," she repeats, getting inside.

The way to their favorite pool is only around ten minutes by car, but the road is made torturous by constant renovations, turning it into a never-ending building site. Dust and sand stick to wheels, and the traffic moves astonishingly slow.

"What a joke," sighs Tatiana.

"You never were a very patient person." Marcel shakes his head. "By the way, what prompted the call?"

"Well, first because I really missed you," Tatiana hangs her voice on the prolonged last syllable, stretching it out to make Marcel laugh.

"Yeah, sure. And for real?" He looks to her for a moment, turning away from the road. "Missed you too, by the way. We should've met up sooner."

"Cute," she grins. "No, but you're right. There was a reason; I feel very confused as of late. I need a good swim," she admits.

Marcel nods, knowing the curing potential of immersing oneself wholly in water. There is a mind-soothing quality to swimming, an almost purifying component that he often benefits from as a transgressive artist. His great influence is the art of Robert Mapplethorpe, and the heavy subject manner makes him seek out comfort frequently.

"It's kind of like a womb, no?" He thinks out loud, making Tatiana giggle.

"Maybe. But wombs are cozy and warm. The swimming pool is freezing. Uninviting. Maybe it's the freshness that makes your blood flow differently through your brain?"

The debate rolls until they arrive at the pool, with no clear winner.

"I guess it depends on your mood," Marcel concludes. "Bathtubs are definitely little wombs."

"Yes," Tatiana nods as they enter.

The strong smell of chlorine hits their noses as soon as they shut the door. Tatiana is overcome by a wave of nostalgia, looking at the kids running around the corridor, half in swimsuits, half-clothed, shouting carelessly to each other. There is such a distinct atmosphere in these spaces that she feels a strong urge to translate it into painting, regretting leaving her sketchbook behind.

"Marcel," she turns to her friend, "do you have your phone on you?"

"Always," he smiles, taking out his phone. "Why?"

"I'd like for you to take some pictures to capture the swimming pool vibe." She gestures towards the floor tiles, the half-empty vending machines, flip flops on the floor. "I think I want to paint it."

"That's hardly a landscape," he says with a smile, "but the pictures would be really nice. You got it." He tells her, snapping a few pics before turning to go inside the men's changing room.

Tatiana follows suit and enters the women's locker room, considering how everything makes her feel. The shared nudity of changing rooms has fascinated her ever since entering it for the first time. Truth be told, it was her first opportunity to study anatomy as a girl, her stares sometimes verging on rude. Her mother had to unglue her eyes from various breasts and legs, young and old, a sea of diverse hair tucked into swimming caps. The swimming pool escapades drove her towards painting women, on the way discovering her budding sexuality. Eventually, she abandoned the subject, but her deep appreciation for the female body stayed with her. Now, knowing better than to treat the swimmers as her anatomy subjects, she admires the simple utilitarianism of the changing room space; bright yellow lockers keep her keys contained in their metallic stomachs, now and then clinking in response to some accidental elbow or knee strike. Girls in swimsuits of various shades of pink run around, impatient for their mothers to emerge out of the room. Tatiana finishes changing and heads towards the showers, always dysregulated, spitting out either steaming water straight from the pits of Hell or ice cold, marking her entire skin with goosebumps. One time she overheard some teenagers joke, " It's just like my ex!" pointing at the shower, and Tatiana hasn't been able to forget that line ever since.

Feeling her thoughts thoroughly granulated by the moody stream, she steps out into the swimming area. Having forgotten to take her flip flops, her toenails curl not to slip on the watered floor. She waves to the already-swimming Marcel, but he fails to see, prompting her to simply enter the pool. She used to properly warm up before swimming, but now has no more patience to do that, craving to simply flow amidst the refreshing water, alongside the other swimmers. Solitary, but still having others within reach, she feels free.

They swim until the late-night hour empties the hall, and impatient staff have to remind them that the pool closes in fifteen minutes.

Tatiana comes out of the water, shivering, at peace. Marcel gets their towels hanging from the wall, and they head towards their respective changing rooms.

"See you in the lobby." He waves to Tatiana, and she nods in response.

Changing back into her clothes has always been the worst part of swimming, she ruefully remembers. The still-wet limbs infect her clothes with water in a particularly unpleasant manner, making each sleeve sticky and stubbornly difficult to put on. The room is now completely empty, putting her in an uneasy mood. The space feels like something liminal, an Edward Hopper scene with a solitary woman, sitting in front of a row of yellow metal lockers, drying her hair with an already wet towel. Wanting to quickly escape this unsettling solitude, she hurriedly packs everything into her bag and leaves to reunite with Marcel.

She finds him chatting with the receptionist, probably to mitigate the annoyance they caused by staying until the last minute. Fortunately, Marcel is a naturally charming man, so they manage to avoid any unpleasantness.

Once out of the building, neither of them wants to go home.

"The night feels so fresh," Marcel sighs into the peaceful air of the quiet neighborhood.

Tatiana's stomach rumbles unforgivingly, causing them both to laugh.

"I'm starving," she exclaims, feeling the hunger permeating her muscles.

"Let's get hot dogs," Marcel suggests. "Remember the hot dog truck, not so far from here? I bet it's still there."

And they go, feeling like two silly adolescents hunting for food trucks. Tatiana feels the air fill her lungs to the brim with life, her tired muscles ache, reminding her that her body is in its prime, lively, present. She hasn't felt so at peace with herself for a long while.

"Hey, Marcel," she says.

"Hm?" he responds, seemingly going through a similar state of bliss.

"I have girl problems." Tatiana grins, ready to be open about her troubles.

"No way," Marcel laughs, though he can sense that she is serious. "More like woman problems now, I guess."

"More like woman problems," she sighs.

They get to the truck, indeed still serving the same hot dogs they used to get two years ago. The rich smell of meat and ketchup sends their stomachs rumbling insanely. Tatiana gets her usual, with pickles and mustard, and they sit on the curb, simply eating and enjoying having each other around. When Marcel swallows his last bite, he wipes his hands and clears his throat, ready to give his best advice.

"So, who's the woman?" he asks.

"I'm afraid you know her," Tatiana admits. "It's the painter, Ellie Matthews."

Even saying the name out loud sends shivers down her spine, her unruly thoughts sent spiraling back towards the infamous bathroom stall.

"Oh." Marcel thinks it over. "But it makes sense, no? You even paint similar things. And she's hot. Like ethereal goddess hot."

"But it's so much more than that. I don't like her approach to art. I don't like her style. We argued horribly the first time we met, and then hooked up during her exhibition opening," Tatiana finally spits out the string of events plaguing her mind.

He exhales loudly, taking in all the unexpected information.

"You… hooked up during her vernissage?" He laughs a bit.

"Yes, but you don't get it. She has such a calm demeanor, when we're not arguing at least, her art is so delicate, but then—" Tatiana blushes, only slightly, "She's insane at sex."

Marcel laughs, heartily.

"So what do you feel like you want to do? Why not just forget about the whole affair, if it upsets you so much you need to go swimming? Or you just want more of the insane sex? Because that is ok, you know?"

Tatiana pouts her lips. She doesn't know.

"There's something that stirs me in her, like I haven't been this mad about art for a long time. And then… I'm painting this thing now, and it's so pathetically, clearly influenced by her."

Marcel pats her back, shaking his head.

"Girl, you're down so bad!"

"No, stop it." She waves her hand around.

They finally get up and stroll towards the car, regretful to not be able to walk home on foot.

"Someday, someday they'll finish this bloody road," Marcel chants as they climb up the hill towards the parking lot.

"Someday they will," Tatiana nods, grateful to have friends who get aggravated at road construction because of the desire to walk under the stars. Tired, they don't speak much on their way back, listening to whatever the radio host chooses to play.

And I do want more of the insane sex.

I can still feel her inside me and I like it.

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