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Yes, the title is lifted from a Bowie song.
The Heart’s Filthy Lesson
I’m standing at the bar when I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of the girl of my dreams. Now, you have to understand, I’m not talking about some airbrushed cover girl with Barbarella hair and breast implants. I’m talking about the girl I always dreamed I’d meet in a place like this. Long, straight, strawberry-blond hair, clever green eyes, and a smile like she’s laughing at everyone but me.
After we’ve managed to get our mutual drinks, a conversation starts. I couldn’t tell you how, with the music pounding loud enough to shake the floor, and with me being incapable of making small talk with attractive, unknown women. But there we were, off in the corner of the club, chatting away like friends who rediscover each other after years apart. Her name is Kelly, she’s twenty-seven, born and raised up north. She’s a painter, and, surprisingly enough, a moderately successful one. I share similar, though far less interesting details with her, and she listens attentively and responds in all the right places. When she asks if she can come back to my place, I quickly say yes.
The cab ride to my apartment is, I swear, like something out of a late night movie. She’s all over me, and I respond in kind, and I don’t know if the driver is enjoying the show or on the verge of kicking us out, but when the cab stops we’re in front of my building.
Somewhere in the midst of things she pauses. The moonlight reflects off of her body. She asks me if I love her, and in that moment I answer that I do.
I wake up a few hours later, sore, sticky, and smiling. The last part goes away as soon as I sit up. Something feels wrong and I can’t figure out what it is. Everything feels grey and flat. I wonder if I’ve been drugged, but when I think back I remember the evening perfectly. Vividly. My memory of the night is sharp and clear and alive in a way that nothing else is. Stumbling out of the bed, I find the note.
I thank you for the gift of love you have given me. I love you.
My shirt sticks to me as I read the note again, and I peel it away from my chest. When I do so, I see the deep red blood. Dropping the note, I pull my shirt off over my head. A thick scar, as wide as my finger and twice as long, runs down the left side, just above my nipple. Half-dried blood covers my chest and stomach. Looking at the note again, I realize what she means. I can remember all of the ways I should respond. All of the feelings I should feel. The shock, the disgust, and, honestly, the disbelief. I remember all of those things, and feel none of them. I can’t. She took my heart.
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Daily art blog Very Short Drawings
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