35 Millimeters III: Fisheye Lens
By Lady Aishiteru
Chapter Three: Leading Yourself On
I sighed involuntarily and tucked my hair underneath my ear. I glanced at Ms. Tenshi Takanada, the slightly overweight woman who sat across from me; fortunately, she was oblivious. Tenshi's continued discourse about how she suspected her boyfriend Tenko was cheating really wasn't anything out of the ordinary for her, even though her half-baked theories were very seldom based in reality. She's exhibited signs of paranoia and fear of rejection since day one, and that usually didn't bother me. I'm a licensed therapist; listening is part of my job description. I've always been fascinated with other people's problems. It makes me feel that much better that I'm helping other people make more sense of their lives, even if I can't make sense of my own.
"I mean, I feel like I don't even know who he is anymore, you know what I'm saying?" Tenshi mused. I nodded, motioning for her to continue. "He's been leaving these weird messages on my voice mail."
"What messages would those be?" I asked, jotting notes down on my clipboard. Although the notes didn't appear make that much difference in the long run, they were actually very important. The notes were far more reliable than my memory, and with said notes I could check up on my patient's progress, or in this case, lack thereof. Besides, my note taking had the added bonus of reassuring my clients that I was listening.
"Well, he keeps saying that wants to take our relationship to the next level. What does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?" I asked, moving my pencil rapidly across the paper. The lead broke just as I was crossing my last "t", and I groaned in frustration. I must have been pressing too hard on the edge of the mechanical pencil. I pushed on the eraser end impatiently with my thumb and after I heard the satisfying click of the lead inside its shaft, I finished the sentence.
This topic was getting a little too close to my own life for comfort. Hearing about the trials and tribulation of other people's lives usually makes my own problems seem farther away, but right now it was bringing my own problems into focus, deep down worries and what ifs that I'd rather not think about. What if the impossible actually happened and Jadeite ever wanted to make our fake relationship a reality? What would I tell him then, that I was never interested in the first place? Didn't he already know that? I cringed; there was no way I wanted to deal with that. Pushing my thoughts aside for the moment, I resumed listening to my client.
Tenshi frowned and chewed on her lip. "Well, we've been seeing each other for three years now. Maybe he's finally thinking about getting engaged. Oh, do you think it could be that? I hope so, because I really do lo-"
I heard a beep and then glanced down at my watch and smiled. It was five o' clock in the evening, which signaled that our session was over. "Good," I thought, smiling. "Just in time. I'd rather hear anything but the l-word." "I'm sorry, Tenshi, it looks like our session is up. Maybe we can start this up again next week."
Tenshi sighed and frowned as if she was really disappointed. "Has it really been an hour? I didn't even notice." She picked up her purse from her seat next to her and flicked her shoulder length violet hair over her shoulder. "Can you at least wish me luck?" I nodded and congenially shook her hand, then wished her the best of fortunes.
After she left the room, I let out a huge sigh. I was glad that this day was over and that I wouldn't have to deal with men or relationships for at least another twenty-four hours. My second date with Jadeite was scheduled to take place the following day at precisely seven-thirty. I rolled my eyes as close to the back of my head as I could. Did I really want to spend another night with this Lord of the Louvre? I concluded that I'd rather watch paint peel. Replaying the date in my mind, I recalled Jadeite's spastic thrashing which bore no resemblance whatsoever to dancing in front of the stage at The Bug Jar and an involuntary giggle escaped my lips. Actually, watching Jadeite head banging was pretty funny.
Maybe the girls would get a kick out of hearing about my date, that is if Minako would ever let me live down that I asked her for information about a bachelor auction. Don't ask me how I knew that she'd be informed about anything like that; it was more of a sixth sense than anything else. I swear that if there were anything going on in Tokyo that featured men, she'd have known all about it. What was even more embarrassing about the incident was that she told Usagi about it, who probably felt the need to tell Mamoru about the whole thing so she could "make sure that hot looking blond is in the auction." I shook my head to myself as I turned the key in my car's ignition. I knew that I wouldn't be able to look Mamoru in the eye for at least a week.
I pulled my car into park and strolled into the Soda Shoppe, bells ringing in my wake. Usagi sat alone at a small table, swinging her legs and happily consuming a triple fudge sundae as if it were the best tasting thing ever. She's been like that as long as I'd known her; completely enthusiastic about everything that she did, especially when it comes to food.
"Hey, Usagi. How's it going?" I asked, sitting down on a chair next to hers. I motioned for Motoki to bring me a diet cola with a lemon. He nodded and rushed off. I've come to the Soda Shoppe so often that I didn't need to put my order into words anymore.
"Couldn't be better, and you?" Usagi responded as she turned her head towards me.
I sighed and fiddled with a strand of hair, twirling it around my index finger. "Don't ask."
"Why, is anything wrong?" Usagi asked between bites of her sundae.
"Nothing in particular. I had a long day at work, that's all," I said, concluding with a forced laugh. What I had said about work was true; I did have a long day. It's just that my job wasn't what was really bothering me at the moment.
"Baloney," she said. "You've always been a horrible liar."
I scoffed. Rolling my eyes, I retorted with the ever popular, "I am not."
Choosing not to press the subject, she instead chewed on her lip and asked, "So, how did your date with Jadeite go?"
I laughed. "It was pretty awkward. That's the last time I let Minako talk me into anything that has something to do with music."
"You mean you didn't like The Bug Jar?" Usagi asked, licking some extra fudge off her spoon. "Minako spoke so highly about it."
"Let's just say that a Metallica tribute band isn't exactly my idea of good folk music," I said, laughing. "Watching Jadeite do an air guitar in his Armani suit was pretty funny, though."
Usagi laughed in return. "I'll bet."
As if on cue, Minako walked into the restaurant, sporting an oversized pair of sunglasses, a little black dress, heavy makeup and the most ridiculous redheaded wig I have ever seen. I guess it comes with the territory with her being a supermodel and all. Still, if she was striving to create a new trend, couldn't she have picked a better wig?
"Hi, guys. What's going on?" asked Minako, glancing over her shoulder as if she suspected that she was being watched.
"Nothing much," replied Usagi. "We were just sitting down to eat."
"Cool," Minako returned. She pulled a seat up to the bar stool and relaxed her posture slightly.
"Minako, I have to ask. What's with the wig?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "This had better be good," I thought.
"Those damned tabloid reporters have really been getting on my case lately. I figured this might throw them off...for a week or two, anyways," Minako replied, grinning sardonically.
"Ah. Makes sense," I conceded. She looked like she was about to say something in her defense when I concluded with, "Red really isn't your color, though."
Ever the mature supermodel, Minako stuck her tongue out at me. Hey, a girl can be concerned about her friend's fading fashion sense, can't she?
"Hey Ames!" Usagi called out. "How's business going?"
"You've asked her that every day, you meatball head. She probably doesn't want to talk about her job!" I said. Not everyone wants to be defined by his or her chosen career path. I'm sure Minako would attest to that. Model or not, she's always been just plain Minako to her friends.
"I don't mind at all," Ami said, and she happily added, "I love my job."
Usagi glared at me as if to say "Ha!" and then she turned again to face Ami. "Any interesting customers?"
"No, not really," Ami said sheepishly.
We all recognized that look. Ami was hiding something, and if I had learned anything about her in the years I had known her, this one was something big. Plus, Ami turns as red as a tomato whenever she tells even the slightest fib. Ami's utter transparency never ceased to amaze me.
"Come on, Ames. Who is he?" asked Minako.
"What makes you think it's a guy?" asked Makoto.
"I know these things, people," Minako responded imperiously.
"Oh yeah," Makoto said, rolling her eyes. "The self-proclaimed Goddess Of Love is at it again."
"Well, have I ever been wrong before?" replied Minako, seeking to affirm her oh-so-perfect record of matchmaking.
At this, the three of us looked down at our hands, not wanting to admit that she was right. During the past year, Minako has put more credits to her status as a master matchmaker. As it turns out, Makoto was secretly in love with her best friend, Nephrite. She saw the truth even when nobody else could. I'd be willing to bet that she even considers Jadeite and I a success story, even though that's hardly the case.
"So there," Minako concluded, her arms crossed over her chest. "Anyways, you're not fooling anyone. I know that look…you're hiding something." Minako added, shaking a perfectly manicured finger at our crimson friend.
"Out with it lady," said Usagi.
"Yeah, Tokyo wants to know," added Makoto.
"All right, all right. He said his name was Zoisite."
"What does he look like?" Minako asked.
"Well, he is one of my clients, so I have his picture in my car. Want me to go get it, guys?"
"Yeah!" chorused everyone else except for me. I lost interest as soon as it was confirmed that this was all about some guy. Having nothing better to do, I silently sipped my soda.
All too soon, Ami returned to our table, and she was still pretty rosy. "What took you?" asked Usagi.
"Yeah, is he a dog or something?" asked Makoto.
Ami fiddled with a manila folder she was holding when a male voice said, "So these are your friends, Ami?"
I smiled as Minako's jaw nearly caved in on itself. Even I had to admit that this guy was rather attractive. He had the same body type as Jadeite, except Zoisite was a little shorter, and his blond hair was pulled into a loose, crimped ponytail at the nape of his neck.
"Quiet bunch, eh?" remarked the man.
"Guys, this is Zoisite. He's one of my clients. Zoisite, this is Usagi, Minako, Makoto and Rei," said Ami. "They're not always this quiet," she added.
"I see," he said. "Mind if I join you ladies?"
"Not at all," Minako said after she had regained her usual slight control over her hormones. Ami glared daggers in Minako's direction, but our clueless friend simply winked back in reply. Zoisite pulled up a chair across from Ami, next to me.
"Hi, would you all like to order?" asked the waitress.
I zoned out after that; the rest of the meal consisted of nothing but corporate shoptalk and stolen glances between Ami and Zoisite. As much as Ami tried to hide it, even the waitress could tell that Ami's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree at the mere possibility of a romance between her and a new client, Zoisite. Maybe she had fallen in love.
After the meal was over, I smiled as I watched Zoisite follow Ami to her car. Briefly, I wondered if things might take a more romantic turn between Jadeite and I. I dismissed that thought within a second. There was no danger of that happening to me, and for that, I was more than thankful.
The moment Jadeite walked into the museum he was transfixed. "Have you ever seen such remarkable beauty?" he murmured absently.
I followed his gaze to see what it was that had captured Jadeite's attention. It was a seven by ten foot canvas that was covered by nothing but splattered paint. I peered intently at the chaotic mess on the wall, looking very closely at the spatters of teal and black intermingled with orange and white. It looked like some five year old had loaded a powerful squirt gun with paint and went to town on somebody's canvas. Picturing it, I snickered a little. The parents of this Jackson Pollock could not have been very happy with the destruction of their art space. I'd have been willing to bet that Jackson was in very deep trouble when his father came home.
"What's so funny?" Jadeite asked, raising his eyebrow.
Trying in vain to regain my composure while shakily pointing at the monstrosity in front of me, I sputtered out, "That!" Jadeite blinked at me as if I was from outer space. In an effort to clarify, I added, "How can that have made it into a museum? I could do the same thing in my sleep."
"Actually, Jackson had a meticulous method behind this apparent madness," began Jadeite. "He was in complete control. One of his methods was to would place a wooden trowel inside the bucket and then to lift the bucket from the ground, creating a stream of paint droplets that would reach the canvas. He was more interested in the motions of painting than the object itself." Jadeite turned his gaze from me to the painting as if he couldn't tear himself away from it. "Jackson believed that each canvas had a mind of its own and that he was helping it to manifest itself. Perhaps the repetitive turbulence and lack of compositional form are indicative of his inner turmoil. If you look really closely, you can see the print of his hands on the upper right."
Having concluded his mini lecture, Jadeite scanned my face for a reaction. Not wanting to disappoint, I stepped about two feet to the side, then stood on my tiptoes to see if I could find the hand print of this alleged artist. Facing off against the foul canvas, I crossed my arms over my chest and squinted intently at the upper right corner. After about a minute of searching, I saw what looked like a pair of handprints, each one pointing upwards and outside of the painting…but for all I could tell, they could be another set of paint splatters. I smirked; this Jackson Pollock had a strange way of signing his paintings.
"I think I see them. Are those the handprints?" I asked, pointing to the globs of paint on the corner.
"Probably," said Jadeite, smiling. "It's kind of unexpected that he would turn his left hand palm face up before pressing it down on the canvas," Jadeite said, turning his left hand to mimic the gesture. "Then again, maybe he used his right hand. He'd have to crawl all over the bottom of the painting to use his left. I don't think humans bend that way."
"Can we please move on to another section?" I groaned. I should have known that I was going to regret this.
"Not a fan of abstract expressionism, I presume?" he asked, the corners of his lips curling into a gentle smile.
I nodded vigorously. "Not in the slightest. I like paintings and sculptures that look like people, places and things."
"I see," he said. "You like paintings that you can relate to on a personal level."
"No, that's not it at all. I know what I like, and that is not it," I said, pointing backwards to the painting we were just looking at. I glanced at the title on the tag; apparently this ungodly conglomeration of paint and canvas was called Lavender Mist: Number 1. I rolled my eyes. That idiotic Pollock couldn't even come up with a good title.
"I can see how the randomness of the painting might startle the viewer," Jadeite said as if he hadn't heard me. "Lavender Mist: Number 1 has no face, no meaning, and no story. When Jackson Pollock was still alive, Time Magazine called him 'Jack the Dripper," finished Jadeite, a wry grin making its way from the edge of his lips to his eyes.
I laughed. "The title seems to fit," I said.
Jadeite chuckled in response. "Well, these paintings are hard to get used to. One might say that they're an acquired taste, kind of like hummus."
"It looks like hummus," I said, giggling a bit.
"With a sprig or two of parsley," he added, joining in. "For color, of course."
I laughed, and the abstract paintings began to trail off behind us. Before I knew it, we were in another section of the museum. "Well, here we are, at the Greek art section."
I barely heard him; my attention was quickly diverted from him to the many nude sculptures of well-muscled men and voluptuous women. Some were cast in marble while others shone with a metallic luster. Men stood before the viewer in a variety of poses, some dynamic and others relaxed. My eyes were drawn to a man standing about ready to throw a discus. His arm was stretched back, and his eyes were fixed forward, and every muscle in his body was on display. Women leaned casually on marble pillars, apparently not concerned that their togas had slid off their bodies or were in the process of losing the fight against gravity. Blushing, my hand moved up my shoulder to adjust my bra strap.
"Is something bothering you?" asked Jadeite. He raised his eyebrow and the corners of his mouth turned down in what I guessed to be a strange combination of amusement and concern.
"Me? Nah," I said, but as I spoke, I was pushing the button into the hole under the collar of my shirt. "What makes you say that?" I said, my voice cracking like some middle school choirboy.
"Oh, I get it. You haven't seen this before, have you?" asked Jadeite, who had a smirk on his face that I wanted to grind out with the heel of my shoe.
"Don't be silly," I said, forcing out laughter. "I see that when I look in the mirror," I said, indicating one of the lounging nymphs of the atrium.
"That's not what I meant," said Jadeite, still smirking. "I figured you'd be the coy vixen type."
"Not my style," I said, glaring at him as best as I could with a tomato-red face. Why couldn't he just drop it?
Jadeite smiled like some blasted guru who had just attained enlightenment. "I see."
Crossing my arms over my well-covered chest, I ground out, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," said Jadeite, suppressing a chuckle.
"No, tell me," I insisted, moving my right hand to settle on my extended hip.
"You've never been with a man, have you?" he said, his smile wavering a bit.
"I'm sorry I asked," I retorted, my eyes narrowing into slits. "Can we go now? I suddenly have a headache."
"That's too bad," said Jadeite, reaching into his pocket.
"Why? What did you have in mind?" I asked, not that I cared.
He pulled two slips of paper out of his pocket. "This," he said, grinning. I smiled in response. It actually wasn't a bad idea.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of Tuxedo Mirage Dance Studio. I threw my coat into the coatroom and crossed the carpeted alcove after Jadeite handed the tickets to a short, willowy woman that stood behind a wooden podium. It was a typical ballet studio with wooden beams nailed to the back, and the ground was polished wood, perfect for freedom of movement. A disco ball hung from the ceiling, and light danced across the mirrored walls. A tall, slender man in a modestly priced, yet elegant suit stood in the center of the room.
Jadeite took my hand and led me towards the center. The instructor snapped his shapely fingers, and the lesson began. Soon, jazzy tunes filled the air, and with that, I learned how to swing dance.
"You seem to have a knack for this," Jadeite said as he twirled me around on his arm.
"Thanks. You're not so bad yourself," I responded, my heels punctuating my sentence by tapping against the hardwood floor.
"Well, this would go a bit better if you'd let me lead every now and again," he joked, winking for effect.
"But you are leading!" I said.
"Ah, so you've noticed," he said, pulling me under his legs.
I rolled my eyes as I glided over the ground. "You jackass," I said when we were face to face again, but I was smiling.
Suddenly, the music slowed down and the disco lights swirled around my shoulders in a heady twirl.
"I thought this was swing dancing," I said, frowning. I didn't like the looks of this one bit.
"It's ballroom," said Jadeite, his face carefully free from expression. "Well, shall we?" he said, extending his arm. Feeling a little guilty, I took it. Had I hurt his feelings?
"So," I said, after Jadeite helped me into the car, "If you were stranded at a desert island and you could have one record, one book and one person, what would you pick?"
He closed the door and stared at the road as if he was in deep thought. After about a minute of silence, he said, "Stairway to Heaven, The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, and Mamoru."
I raised my eyebrow. "Mamoru. Really." I deadpanned.
"Yeah, if anyone could get us off that stupid island, it would be him!" He slapped the wheel with his right hand and laughed. I glared at him and kept quiet, letting my silence do the talking. Just when the atmosphere had become a little too awkward, Jadeite said, "Let me guess yours. I'll bet I can get it right on the first try."
"Okay. Knock yourself out, genius," I replied, grinning sardonically.
"Hm… I think I've got it." Jadeite paused for about a second, but I could tell that it was an act. "A Day Without Rain, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, and me."
I laughed. "You? Don't flatter yourself."
Jadeite clutched his chest with his left hand in mock pain. "I'm hurt," he said, his lip wobbling dramatically.
"Other than that, not too bad," I admitted.
"So what were your choices?" he asked, his right hand resting on the cushion that divided the car seats.
"Surfacing, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and as for the person, I'd pick Howard Schultz," I informed.
"Howard Schultz?" he asked, stupefied.
"He's the founder of Starbucks," I imperiously imparted. Who else could he be?
He chuckled. "I should have guessed by all of the frappucino bottles lining your condo."
"I'll have you know that my apartment is spotless, mister!" I cried, gesturing wildly. Hey, a girl's home is her castle, and I had to defend my turf.
"I don't know…" he trailed off, grinning.
"Well, keep this up and you won't be seeing it again anytime soon," I snapped.
"But I've never seen anything past the doorway. Nice wood paneling, by the way." He offered as a clumsy peacemaking gesture.
"Doorway? You're lucky you saw that," I retorted.
"Speaking of which, I believe we have arrived, milady," he said, pulling the car into park next to the curb. He lifted his foot from the brake and stepped out of the car. "So," he said, lifting my arm, "Shall I give you another handshake?"
"Sure," I said, feeling a bit uncertain. "I guess so."
Once we arrived at the door, he turned to face me again, smiling like the Cheshire cat. I didn't like it; he was up to something. Before I could protest, he grabbed my hand, pulled me in and placed a peck on my cheek. "Goodnight, Rei," he said, his gaze lingering after his lips were lifted from my cheek.
"Goodnight," I muttered tersely. He walked away slowly, as if reluctant to leave. Having other ideas, I closed the door and stomped up the stairs.
"If he ever does that again, I'll…I'll…" I sputtered angrily, and then I sighed in defeat. I racked my brains for five minutes for the answer as I carefully washed my cheek. I didn't want to admit it, not even to myself, but I honestly had no idea what I'd do.
Author's Note: Lavender Mist: Number 1 is a real painting. I actually like it, from what I can tell by seeing a miniature version of it that fits on my monitor. The life of Pollock, which was just as colorful as his paintings, which was cut short by a car accident that took place in 1956. If you've got the time, I would also suggest renting the film about his life entitled simply Pollock. It doesn't say everything about his mental illness or alcoholism, though it strongly alludes to both. If you want to get that in depth, read a book at the library.