Salt And Pepper

His: Life in General

2:17 AM

Armin Van Buuren's music thumped through the crowded bar and here I sat alone, the barkeep probably the only person who knew my state of mind. I had shoved two Franklins into her breast pockets to keep the shots going till I passed out and well, she seemed to mind neither the groping nor me passing out literally on her workplace.

Yes, I drowned my sorrows in alcohol, women and loud music, but the pain just grew. With each Grappa shot, each thrust in bed and each Progressive beat, the pain just grew.

I couldn't help but recall the burglary frame by frame. I was once a happy man, a loving boyfriend and quoting Forbes, "The new DaVinci, arty, witty and a whole lot more"; and now, just the sarcasm remained. The art world is a dark, dark place with billions of dollars involved, and naturally, people who want to earn quick the dirty way.

Every time we made love, it was passionate. Each and every time. I loved Amanda so much that I could give up everything for her. One night after she finally was able to feel her legs (not bragging, but hey.), her ritual of going to the kitchen to fetch warm milk took a shocking turn. After a while I heard a deafening sound echo through my apartment. I ran out to see that I had lost all of my paintings, all my works in progress and the love of my life, as there lay Amanda, a bullet wound on her neck, bleeding, shivering like a fish out of water.

"Miss me," she whispered.

I hid. I hid from the world and the press and everyone else who could interfere in any way in my life. My investors and frequent buyers went away with the tag "the next DaVinci" and the only person who waited and waited and was still there, looking at me gnawing away quickly at my money along with his investments with zero returns was my mentor, the person because of whom I was what I was today, Bryce Howard.

He was the man who bought my first painting when I was just 16 in a Bronx street fair and was the same man who stood by me as I slowly yet steadily lost my senses.

Every week, Saturday, he would call early in the morning saying "Is my painting ready yet?" and would always get the same reply "Has Hell frozen over yet?" He would say "Well at least you still have your wit," and hang up. No deadlines, no threats, just that.

Each time I picked the brush up, the hue of her blood crossed my mind. How those two worlds mingled, only I will ever know. Now all I had left was the money (some of it), the empty canvases, paparazzi either defaming me or trying to find me, and memories. Two parts of me collided head to head on the last one, debating on whether to keep them or erase them forever. As if I had a choice.

Alcohol. Wealth. Broken heart. New York City. These are things that guarantee you waking up with a stranger the next morning.

The phone rung and vibrated but the person next to me seemed dead to the world.

I fished my phone from under the stranger's ample bosom, while trying to remember her name.

"Oh Bryce! Bad day to wake me up, man. Tell me what you want and then send me some Aspirin as consolation, please? And Xanax...." I mumbled into the phone.

"I want you in my office in an hour, there's someone I want you to meet," he barked.

"I haven't touched a brush in ages. I can't paint anymore, man. Let me sleep!"

"Fine, then tell whoever you're sleeping with to support you and your expensive tastes. Before that, good luck remembering her name," came the reply.

"Screw you, man." I almost moaned into the phone.

2 hours later

"An hour late. Great first impression on the new therapist I've called in for you," Bryce said in his typical fashion.

I started walking back towards my car. "Not another shrink, Bryce. I've told you I'm not crazy, I just can't paint anymore."

I felt a firm hand on my arm. "Wait here while I fetch her," he coolly replied.

"What if I don't?"

"Oh you will. She knew Amanda."