I don’t know why I’ve always liked brutes. They drink too much for lack of the right language to express themselves. Sometimes they’re too scared to express anything at all, but it’s never obvious. They appear coarse, aloof, absolutely taciturn. They have always been my weakness. I really yearn for it. The mind reels with all the possibilities of what they might feel or think about you. Usually it is nothing like what you expect and much less complex than the thoughts you generously assign to them.

Anabel only gave me the job because, she said, I was naturally maternal. It had come up after I asked Anabel how she had gotten married in the first place. Anabel said, “Well, darling, it was simple. I had not been in touch with many men at that age, or at least any good men. Anyone who was sweet was surprising. It seemed unbelievable to me. One day he looked at me and said, ‘Anabel, I will never look up or down at you. Let’s get married.’ And we did of course. Things didn’t turn out how either of us thought they would, but we have a beautiful child together, and that’s enough to celebrate from that union. A piece of advice: You’ll come across many people who will want to be with you. People’s imaginations aren’t entirely idle; they can slot you into their futures easily. You have qualities that people wouldn’t mind spending time with, at least for a while. You could be the perfect girl for Anybody. We are conditioned to be obsessed with people falling in love with us. Reaching that point is seen as a success. We’re always asking, ‘Why do they act this way?’ and then morphing, cooing, comforting. By the time you win them over, you don’t know how to really love them in return because we never ask ourselves enough about what we want. Don’t ever forget you have the ability to choose. Never wait to be chosen by someone who came ready to treat you right. I know it may not seem this way in art and literature, but we are not mere vessels for love and admiration. If I said yes to every proposition I was given just because I was flattered by it, well!” What she means is have an idea of what you want and never get talked out of it. I am slowly learning to never accept less than I deserve. Deciding how much I deserve is another matter. I wish someone would say to me, “I will never look up or down at you.”

I have always disappointed the people who ask me what I’m feeling. When someone asks, even if I’m feeling particularly anguished, I can’t seem to form the words. Maybe it comes from the fear of what may change. The atmosphere suddenly hardens and from one moment to the next the person feels differently. I am really terrified of that. To be free to communicate without consequence—is that ever a possibility? I want to say, “I don’t want you to have feelings about my feelings.” I want to be heard without consequence because to be heard is such a novelty. If someone asks while looking me straight in the eye, I slither away. Even though we are looking at each other, I am still hiding. My dark eyes are good for that. The feelings on the tip of my tongue have no shape; they’re listless, always trying to sneak up in a moment of poignancy. Sometimes what I want to say is “I want you to be mine!” Sometimes it is “I feel trapped!” Sometimes it is “I resigned myself to a fate I thought I wanted, but now I don’t!”

But I have yearnings, that’s true. I make choices. I take action. That is simply how I navigate. But isn’t it who I am who goes out into the world? Do those few lonely moments when I return inward, away from noise and glamour, really count?

He asked, “What’s the problem, Isa?” And tired of being coy all the time, I wanted to say, “I like when you are tender with me. I wish you were tender all the time.” It was the feeling that his tenderness was selective, and I wanted to be the object of all of it. I fiddled with my straw. The pulp of the lime trembled in the glass. I said, “You know,” and he said, “No, I don’t.” I have tried to stitch together tenderness from each person. Wring them of it. I want all the tenderness in the world. It’s a natural urge to want to be important in someone’s life. The soft underbelly of a coarse man. A preview is never enough because I am insatiable.

[...] I got up and walked over to Christopher, who was talking to the boy I had noticed. Christopher introduced us. The boy kissed me on both cheeks. His name was Theo. He had a long face and thick, dark, expressive eyebrows. He was wearing one of those navy workwear jumpsuits, like a mechanic, and had deep brown skin and bleached blond hair. Whenever he looked at me, he grinned in a mischievous way. I felt shy if I held his gaze for too long, uncomfortable. I thought he was beautiful. Definitely the most beautiful boy I had seen in New York. Christopher looked at both of us and laughed. “Why don’t you show Isa the view on the roof? She hasn’t gone up yet.” Theo smiled. “That’s a good idea.” From across the room I could feel Gala giving me one of her looks. Theo led me up the stairwell, holding me by the arm and gently rubbing his thumb over my wrist. The night had renewed its lease.