Unless (LGBTQ+ BxB Completed Novel)

5: Happily depressed.

Twelve hours after him—I was in denial, in the I-couldn't-care-less character, playing my part well. How could I mind about a total stranger who yes, saved me from drowning, but also left me all alone in the middle of Rockaway beach? I mean, he could have at least hung in there to see if I stopped breathing. I'm not being dramatic, if that's what you are thinking. Playing all high and mighty worked wonders on my desire to meet him, but the Polaroid and bailing part of the story left me wondering if he cared at all.

Twenty-four hours after him—I couldn't get his voice out of my head, dream-fucking him. I landed on my ass for crying out loud! The dream was so vivid I woke up with a beady forehead and a painful hard on—which no; I didn't act upon, mind you.

Thirty-six hours after him—Living on the flip side of the whole messy dilemma, b-siding this nonsensical conundrum. Who? Why? How? An endless loop of questions left unanswered. I wanted nothing more than to get back to that shore and wait for him to come find me again.

Forty-eight hours after him—My girlfriend dumped me. 

I had it coming, though. We'd been good on paper but nothing else. No communication at all. I'd been drifting away and yesterday I even refused to have sex with her. 

She left without knowing about this hypothetical scenario where the guy who took pity on me apparently knows my name. So now I'm here, waiting for him to come rescue my depressed ass from... myself; I guess? I could grab my Yamaha and drive to that goddamn beach right now. Linger there until something happens, or doesn't happen, and I can put this total mess behind me for good. 

Enough! What am I? Thirteen and in love? Jeez, talking about second-hand shame, right?

I must focus on my project, or Professor Milton might flunk me, and my old man will cut me off. With a heavy sigh, I put out my third cigarette and finish my second mug of coffee in one gulp. My eyes wander to my canvas. I'm working on this abstract piece, and Savvy was right—it has evolved into something different from what I expected it to be.

I've let myself go, adding layer upon layer of monochromatic strokes; they seem violent, edgy, and empty. There's an unsteady voice, stored deep inside the acrylic-covered canvas; it feels just like the ocean filling my lungs. Then I realize what it represents: me, drowning.

A 16" x 20" x 1/2" impasto painting of myself committing suicide... the funny thing is, I started this piece way before the episode down at Rockaway Beach as if part of my subconscious knew I was up to no good.

I remember my prior confrontation with Dad, how crappy he made me feel about my apprenticeship. Still, I want to do it; I'm passionate about tattoos; there is something alluring in working with a live canvas, with bloody veins underneath, beating veins, breathing bodies ready to be imprinted for the first time.

There's a trust there too, more so for those who are free of ink, waiting for me to beautify them. Coaching first-timers through the process and helping them relax and breathe through the needle pain is so damn perfect. Painful-perfect. 

Alexei is my mentor; I still remember when we met over at this pub we always go to after classes with some of my friends from Pratt.

"That has to be the ugliest tatt I've had the chance of coming across. No offense, dude," he said to me, making me laugh so hard I  spit half my beer over his stubble.

"None taken, got it when I was in high school, first night out, drunk as fuck and still wearing my uniform," I answered, making him chuckle even louder.

"Alexei Ivanov. Tattoo artist." He introduced himself, pride dripping from his tongue, making me notice the amount of gorgeous work he had running down both his forearms.