Author's Note:
I just wanted to give a sincere thank you to everyone who has shown appreciation for my work thus far! The comments and criticisms really keep me going. You've all been wonderful! Enjoy!
- your city bird
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The photographs are exquisite. A portrait of a young man, his tattooed shoulders bared and soft brows furrowed as he takes a drag from a cigarette. The same man crouching, doubled over, a black sock-clad foot pressing into his back. Every single black and white blown up print showed this pale, inked-up young model in a different light - with glitter trailing from his chest and neck up to his forehead, with his fingers squelching in thick clumping mud, with his head tilted back, hair tousled as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Umberto had clearly found his muse.
I wandered off into the belly of the gallery in search of Umberto and came face to face with the muse himself. He was sitting, literally, on a pedestal, one long leg dangling off the marbled edge, the other bent and hugged tightly to his chest. Tattoos covered both pale thin arms and one rather large piece wrapped from near his shoulder blades around the front and dipped over his hip and into the waistband of his dark jeans. He rested his chin on his bent knee, as his intense gaze, darkened with generous amounts of shadow and liner, floated above the milling heads of the gallery's patrons. I stared in awe of the mystifying beauty in front of me until I was shaken from my trance by a firm hand on my shoulder.
"His name's Zepar. Even his name suits him. Like the fallen angel," Umberto said, his gaze lingering over the young man as well.
I settled back into my friend's grip on my shoulder, my eyes continuing to rake over the statuesque model as my conversation with Umberto carried on. He had a name. Zepar.
I was able to free myself from the mystique of the young man and milled around, making small talk with the gathering of Umberto's friends and other art world bigwigs. I was beginning to get bored in the sea of pretension and apathy and started to work my way toward the large glass doors of the gallery.
"Owen! I was just looking for you!" Umberto shouted from behind me. He always had a way of popping up when you least anticipate or wish for it. "What's up, Bert?" I said, turning my head, but not bothering to do an about-face from the exit.
"I was just wondering if you had any plans for later. I was hoping to have a sort of low-key afterparty kind of thing. My apartment's still sort of a wreck from last night, and I thought, maybe you'd want to host tonight. Your place is always squeaky clean."
I rolled my eyes, letting out a sigh, "I don't know, Bert. My place is sort of small..."
"Whose isn't in Manhattan?" Umberto chuckled, shaking one of my shoulders, "But really, it won't be more than maybe ten people. You, me, Zepar, a couple of fashion editors, Sarah, and her friends. That's it. And I'll reimburse you for any liquor we may put to use."
I rubbed my eyes with the palm of my hand as I thought it over. I loved Umberto to death, but he could be a complete dick at times. And all his art and fashion friends drove me up a wall. If I had to hear another pompous art director tell me how Bert was 'the next Steven Klein,' I was going to become physically ill. But as soon as I heard Umberto say that Zepar would be there, in my apartment, I knew I had no choice but to say yes. For whatever reason, I didn't want to be the one to put a wrinkle in the young man's plans; I didn't want to be the reason for his disappointment.
"Okay," was all I said, not wanting to sound too reluctant or too enlivened.
Umberto beamed, "You're the best, man! You can head back to your apartment if you want. I'll corral everyone and be there in a few!"
I just nodded and continued out the door, a glacial blast of air stung my eyes as I opened the glass door and quickly ducked into my silver compact car. Tonight was going to be interesting.
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Umberto kept to his word. Only a handful of people accompanied him when he arrived. They consumed copious amounts of alcohol and chattered away about so-and-so's summer collection or what's-her-face's performance art. I would have been absolutely mad if I hadn't had that one sweet distraction.
Umberto sat back comfortably in the corner of my sectional sofa and sitting on his knee, his back against Bert's chest was Zepar.
He didn't speak a word the entire night, just sat back against Umberto, occasionally sipping from the bottle of vodka he clutched loosely in his graceful fingers. I wondered how he felt in this moment, with Umberto clutching at him like he was his own property. I wondered if he felt the same way I did about this room full of overinflated ego.
His heavy-lidded eyes wandered over the room with a listless ennui, looking at no one or nothing in particular. Until he looked at me.
I froze, quickly averting what I immediately realized was an intense stare. After a moment, I dared a glance back in his direction and found that he was still looking at me. His eyes held a different sort of expression now. They were still hooded and dark, but they had a soft look, almost like curiosity. It certainly wasn't the boredom that had filled the depths of his gaze moments before.
I turned away once again. From the way that Umberto possessively wrapped his arm around the younger man's waist I decided that I should probably find myself a pastime other than ogling someone he seemed so quick to declare.
