Craving: A Kylo Ren Tale

Ten

The next morning, it's as if nothing ever happened.

I prepare a breakfast of omelettes and tropical fruit salad, but never see Kylo emerge from his room or studios. After sending a text letting him know it's on the counter if he's interested, I notice that he leaves the message on "read" but doesn't respond.

He's so fucking hot and cold. Scalding hot. Bitter cold.

Instead of dwelling on the late night balcony rendezvous, I throw myself into work.

Phasma has emailed to let me know that Kylo is showing artwork in San Francisco next week, and that she wants me to stop by her workspace to help prepare the pieces for travel.

After a quick shower I dress myself in black skinny jeans, a Magical Mystery Tour shirt under a flannel, combat boots, and throw a velvet scrunchy in my hair. I'm sure Phasma will look like a model, as usual, but I like my style.

Her studio is in Tribeca, so I shoot Vic a text asking for a ride downtown. As expected he's quite prompt with the pickup, he says he was already out and about driving Kylo somewhere this morning. We share some witty banter while discussing our favorite music, he invites me to see his band play sometime.

"Do you want me to wait, miss? I don't mind." He almost seems hopeful, as he pulls up to Phasma's.

"No no, that's okay V. I'm not sure how long this will all take, packing the art. Thank you though," I find myself blushing again, even though surely the man is just doing his job.

I make my way inside the office, and it's gorgeous. Tall ceilings, large open floor plan, tables full of artwork, scattered boxes full of even more.

"Good morning, thanks for coming in," she says. Impeccably dressed in a black blazer and slacks, chrome jewelry, and signature red lipstick.

"Of course. How can I help?"

"He'll be setting up an exhibition in the Bay Area on Tuesday and we need to get everything prepared for shipment. I need you to catalog each piece, make sure they're properly labeled and wrapped, and then pack them into boxes. Here's the list of what's being sold, you'll need to work through the art on the tables to find what's needed. Let me know if anything is missing. I'll be at my desk if you have any questions."

Spread out on the massive tables are dozens of canvases. They're all absolutely haunting.

"What... what are they?" I'm fascinated with what's laid out before me.

From afar they seem like simple black and white shreds of paper on canvases. But as I look closer I see fragments of human bodies in the photographs. A woman's bare leg. A collarbone. The curve of a waist. A wrist. A mouth. The female form has become distorted and mangled, yet somehow still beautiful.

"It's from his décollage phase." She blandly looks up from her work, with an expression like I should know what she's talking about. I don't, of course. I went to cooking school, not art school.

"Collages?" I ask.

"No, the opposite," she explains. "Instead of piecing together images to make something new, he tore the pictures apart. He calls this series Lovers. He took photographs, and then destroyed them. It's a statement on how strangers become lovers who become strangers again. They'll eat this up in California, it'll sell quickly."

I don't know shit about art, but I'm blown away nonetheless.

Each one is titled a different woman's name, and their faces and random body parts have been ripped from the canvas. It should be grotesque, their damaged naked bodies, but instead it's ghostlike. As if they were once here and now suddenly they're not.