Violeta Noir

Friday was quiet.

No men. No mythology. No strange little plot twists waiting behind a cocktail glass.

I went home, cooked, and rested.

Which, apparently, was the universe conserving energy.

Because Saturday got loud.

I found a beautiful little coffee shop downtown, ordered something delicious, opened my homework, and settled in wearing an off-white lace dress that was doing absolutely nothing to encourage academic concentration.

It was soft.

Almost innocent.

Almost.

Low neckline. High slit. Barely-there makeup. Glossy, pouty lips.

The kind of dress that says wholesome until I turn sideways.

I took a few pictures between assignments and posted them without much ceremony.

Well.

That isn’t completely true.

There was one particular member of my audience I was interested in irritating.

Wounded Boy had gotten a little too comfortable lately.

And I have always believed imagination is far more effective than explanation.

So I gave him just enough.

The dress.

The coffee shop.

Later, a midday margarita somewhere else.

No context.

No explanation.

No indication of who might have been sitting across from me.

Just me, outside, looking delicious and apparently enjoying myself without him.

Mission accomplished.

Except somewhere between Saturday and Tuesday, the mission developed a considerable scope problem.

The pictures started moving.

Then they kept moving.

My adds climbed until Snapchat simply surrendered and displayed 99+.

Notifications piled up.

Comments piled up.

Men started asking whether I sold content.

By Tuesday afternoon, the Saturday story had crossed 8,500 views.

The night out alone was somewhere around 7,000.

I had posted Saturday intending to annoy one man.

Apparently, I notified the internet.

Wounded Boy laughed when I told him.

He reminded me that he had already warned me those pictures were going to get men going.

Fair.

I just hadn’t expected several thousand of them to participate.

Saturday night belonged to Dionysus.

Or perhaps Dionysus belonged to Saturday night.

There is a distinction.

I walked into his domain and hugged him hello.

He made my drink.

Tequila and Coke.

Technically.

In practice, it was tequila with enough Coke added to provide plausible deniability.

I took my drink outside because I preferred the DJ out there.

Somewhere around twenty minutes later, my muted phone received a summons.

Come here.

I didn’t see it.

By the time I finally wandered back through the club, Dionysus was already dancing with another woman.

He gave me a little you-should-have-come-sooner energy.

I shrugged.

My Spanish dance moves are rusty anyway.

Then the song ended.

The woman returned to the man she had been with, and he asked her in Spanish how Dionysus danced.

She started flailing her arms.

Not good, apparently.

They both burst out laughing.

I nearly died.

The god of revelry had received his first unfavorable review of the evening and didn’t even know it.

He went back behind the bar and made me another drink.

Bigger cup.

Same formula.

Tequila.

Threat of Coke.

No charge.

My companion, meanwhile, was practically drinking lemonade.

She tasted mine and looked at me like Dionysus was trying to embalm me while I was still alive.

The night developed its own momentum after that.

The bouncer decided he was prepared to work overtime and would very much like to get to know me better.

Several unrelated men called out as I passed them.

Hey girl.

Miss Ma’am.

How you doing?

I wanna get to know you.

I laughed, thanked them, and kept moving.

Then, because apparently the evening had not committed hard enough to absurdity, a man appeared carrying a nine-foot snake and draped it across my shoulders.

Naturally, I held it.

The DJ kept pulling me onto the dance floor and teaching me dances.

I drank.

I laughed.

I learned badly.

I flirted selectively.

I felt beautiful.

And I left before closing.

The evening eventually ended over late-night pancakes and conversation with women who gave me an entirely new list of places around town to explore.

Dionysus was fun.

Very fun.

But I discovered almost immediately that he makes far more sense beneath colored lights.

Because he wasted absolutely no time requesting his performance review.

Before the night had even fully cooled, the messages started.

What do you think now?

What else???

What is going through your mind?

What did your friend say?

Sir.

I have not even metabolized the tequila.

We had exchanged perhaps ten meaningful words.

Dionysus wanted applause before the curtain had finished falling.

Interesting.

Because the next man never asked me what I thought of him.

He simply gave me plenty to think about.

Sunday was different.

I prepared for Chiron.

That matters.

Saturday had been nightlife, movement, alcohol, and whatever state my hair had survived the evening in.

Sunday was ritual.

Fresh shower.

Freshly done hair.

Fresh lashes.

Soft skin.

White milkmaid dress.

Intentionality.

Wounded Boy had already seen the dress on my stories.

Then I disappeared.

No updates.

No pictures from the table.

No checking in.

No returning Wounded Boy’s messages.

No breadcrumbs for anybody watching from the outside.

For those few hours, I stopped documenting my life because I was too busy living it.

Chiron had chosen the restaurant and made the reservation himself.

Then irony immediately introduced itself.

It was the same restaurant where Wounded Boy and I had reconnected.

Then I saw Chiron’s car.

Same make and model.

Both Army veterans.

Both military legacies.

Enough similarities to make me notice.

Enough differences to make the similarities nearly irrelevant.

Chiron arrived beautifully put together.

Pink shirt.

Perfectly fitted pants.

Shoes that made me want to applaud.

Freshly shaved head.

Soft beard.

Lips that immediately became a problem.

And then came the offerings.

Flowers.

A stuffed vampire.

My favorite energy drink.

His favorite energy drink, so I could try it too.

And a handwritten letter celebrating my making the Dean’s List.

He wrote that he liked calling me Aphrodite, although there was clearly some Athena mixed in.

Beauty and brains, he suggested, was simply unfair.

Then he signed it:

Chiron.

Not his real name.

Chiron.

I nearly melted into the tablecloth.

That is the difference between a man asking me what I want and a man paying enough attention to arrive with an answer.

Wounded Boy had recently told me he wanted to take me on a date.

I asked what he had in mind.

Whatever you want.

Chiron never asked me to build my own experience and hand him the blueprint.

He arrived prepared.

And I could barely eat.

The food sat directly in front of me, and I couldn’t have cared less.

I wanted to touch his freshly shaved head.

His beard.

His mouth.

He was getting turned on.

I was getting turned on.

Dinner became decorative.

Eventually we made it back to the car.

And Chiron confirmed that the chemistry had not been imaginary.

By the time I went home, I was carrying flowers, a vampire, leftovers I barely remembered ordering, and a problem.

Chiron had gotten inside my head.

Monday morning, Wounded Boy found me asleep with another man’s vampire tucked beneath my arm.

I woke up to him snuggling me.

And when the vampire came up, I practically squealed.

Chiron got it for me.

I didn’t lower my voice.

I didn’t minimize it.

I didn’t hide the flowers.

I had posted them.

I hadn’t posted the vampire.

I had posted the white dress.

The handwritten card was sitting open on my nightstand where Wounded Boy could read every word if curiosity got the better of him.

Nothing about Chiron was hidden.

I had already told Wounded Boy that Chiron and I had known one another far longer than the few days he seemed inclined to reduce him to.

Sunday was sitting all over the room.

And I hadn’t even washed it from my skin.

Chiron got the ritual.

Wounded Boy got the aftermath.

No fresh shower.

No freshly prepared version of me.

No ceremony.

He got whatever was left when he climbed into my bed Monday morning.

And still, Wounded Boy did what Wounded Boy does extraordinarily well.

He snuggled me awake.

We talked.

We laughed.

We giggled.

We kissed.

We made love.

Then we made love again.

And again.

By the end of the day he was joking that there was practically nothing left to give.

Wounded Boy has always understood one particular language fluently.

And knowing that other men are looking at me seems to irritate him in exactly the way that also turns him on.

He likes to leave his mark.

I know that.

He knows that I know it.

Later we went for sushi and hibachi.

We had drinks.

We chased the banana bread latte I had become obsessed with.

We talked.

We laughed.

We loved on each other.

It was easy.

Familiar.

Warm.

And sexually ridiculous.

He was wonderful at exactly what I have assigned him to be.

That may be the problem.

Wounded Boy is still magnificent at what I have reduced him to.

But he is rock solid in lover purgatory.

No promotion available.

No amount of sexual excellence changes the vacancy requirements.

He stays there until his life materially changes or I decide I no longer want him in it at all.

And somewhere in the middle of Monday, something else happened.

I kept closing my eyes and seeing Chiron.

That was new.

Wounded Boy had my body.

Someone else had wandered into my imagination.

Not because one date suddenly makes Chiron destiny.

It doesn’t.

One beautiful afternoon is still one afternoon.

But Wounded Boy has occupied that particular room in my mind for a very long time.

Now someone else had found the door.

Even my attention Monday was different.

With Chiron, my phone had virtually ceased to exist.

With Wounded Boy, I answered things here and there.

Posted here and there.

At one point I even turned the phone away.

Chiron had gotten my presence.

Wounded Boy got access.

Those are not the same thing.

Then my car decided to join the plot.

Something underneath came loose and began dragging.

Wounded Boy immediately pulled over at the coffee shop.

He got under the car.

Looked at it.

Found the nearest AutoZone.

Figured out what parts we might need.

Went with me.

I paid for the parts.

We went home.

He tried to fix it.

He couldn’t.

We didn’t have a jack.

So I called AAA.

AAA wasn’t technically supposed to repair it, but the technician removed the loose cover so I could drive safely enough for now.

The problem will be properly handled this weekend.

But Wounded Boy tried.

That matters too.

Later, when Chiron heard what happened, his response was simple.

When he came into town, he could take a look.

If he could fix it, he would.

No shopping list.

No instructions.

No performance of usefulness.

Just:

I’ll look.

Which brings me to Pint-Sized Mechanic.

Tuesday morning he appeared asking how my weekend had been.

Sir.

You watched the documentary.

He had been watching Snapchat.

He knew exactly how my weekend appeared from the outside.

Still, I politely answered.

Then he asked what happened to my car.

I explained.

His response?

You could buy a jack. They aren’t expensive.

Then:

If you had a jack I could’ve come and fixed it for you lol.

There it was.

The mechanic gave me instructions.

The Centaur offered his hands.

Even Wounded Boy had already crawled under the damn car.

Suddenly, something that had irritated me about Pint-Sized Mechanic from the beginning made perfect sense.

He once told me that he was accustomed to telling other people what to do.

I believed him.

He had certainly tried doing it with me.

The problem is that I do not find authority particularly impressive when it arrives without contribution.

You cannot order me around while simultaneously waiting for me to acquire the equipment necessary for you to become useful.

Pick a struggle.

And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.

Why didn’t you call me?

Why would I?

Call you to tell you that I am having a good time somewhere else?

Call you so you can tell me what equipment I should purchase?

No.

Dionysus, meanwhile, wanted to know what I thought of him.

Repeatedly.

What else?

What else did I think?

What had been going through my mind?

What had someone else said about him?

The funny thing was that the night had been memorable.

I just wasn’t sure he was the most memorable part of it.

The snake had made a pretty strong showing.

That left me with an accidental little collection of contrasts.

One man wanted instructions followed.

One wanted praise.

One wanted access.

And one simply paid attention.

Perhaps that is what this weekend actually gave me.

Not another man.

Not a roster update.

A comparison.

Attention is everywhere.

Apparently thousands of people will give it away for free.

Intention is rarer.

Saturday, everybody was looking at me.

Sunday, one man was paying attention.

Monday, Wounded Boy reminded me why he remains an exceptional lover.

Tuesday, the others reminded me why that alone is no longer enough.

I’ve also noticed something else.

Something I hesitate to give too much meaning.

Since allowing Wounded Boy back into my orbit, little things have seemed to break.

Nothing catastrophic.

Just interruption.

Repair.

Maintenance.

Things needing attention.

Things needing to be handled.

Then Chiron appeared.

And almost immediately, I received a thousand-dollar increase to one of my credit lines.

The car misbehaved, yes.

But even that was handled quickly and will be completely fixed within days.

I am not foolish enough to believe men control my luck.

Still.

I notice patterns.

Wounded Boy has lately felt associated with repair.

Chiron, so far, feels associated with receiving.

Maybe it means nothing.

Maybe it only means that one energy feels like maintenance while another feels like expansion.

Either way, I noticed.

And perhaps the strangest part is that Chiron does not appear particularly interested in removing Wounded Boy from my life.

He knows Wounded Boy exists.

He is comfortable with it.

Wounded Boy knows Chiron exists.

I have made absolutely no effort to protect him from that knowledge.

The flowers were visible.

The vampire was in my arms.

The letter was open.

The dress was on my stories.

I disappeared while I was with Chiron.

Then Wounded Boy arrived the next morning and received whatever remained.

Maybe that is why something feels different now.

Nobody forced me to choose.

Nobody demanded exclusivity.

Nobody issued an ultimatum.

The comparison simply happened.

And once a woman has experienced the difference between being watched and being studied, between being asked what she wants and being surprised with something she loves, between someone describing what he could do and someone simply moving toward the problem…

the standard moves.

Sunday followed me into Monday.

By Tuesday, I knew it had.

The men had not changed.

I had.