Behind the Glass

part 1

The room was dark with the flickering from the television. A thick, grayish white smoke floated slowly toward the ceiling from in between Attis's finely shaped fingers. She lay motionlessly on a big, clumsy sofa, which somehow seemed comfortable. Her hair was untied, draping over half of her face. Attis stared at the screen and at times pulled a trivial anle with her lips.
She narrowed her eyes as the man in the film before her muttered hopelessly, "There's nothing but trouble and desire. There's nothing but trouble and desire. There's nothing but trouble and desire. There's nothing but trouble and desire. There's nothing but trouble and desire..." She signed deeply, agreeing with the statement.
"'When you desire something, you immediately get into trouble, but when you're in trouble, you don't desire anything,'" I quoted from the other end of the room. i had been in the room observing Attis for a while, but I only finally came to her at the end of the film. I sucked on the cigarette Attis handed to me and played with her hair as I exhaled the smoke.
"You wantchin' these depressing films again?"
"It's art, Ren."
"Art requires thinking, and thinking is depressing."
She gave me a laugh with a snort and shook her head lightly.
"C'mon, if we hurry, we can still catch the show," I said with excitement. I'd wanted to go to this art show for weeks but never had the time until tonight.
"Alright." Attis jumped off the sofa and walked toward the door.
I hesitated for a second, "Um, are you going like that?" I pointed to her pajamas.
"Sure. Why not?"
With that, I grabbed her coat and waist and headed downtown.

I led Attis into the cavern-like entrance like an old dog on his way home. This was the place I used to hang out with my queer peers but I hadn't been here since I met Attis. They had redecorated it since I was gone. There were torches hanging on both sides of the cave, each was about 30 feet apart. The cave was arid, and the floor was of dirt. The pathway expanded as we went deeper inside the tunnel. When we reached the end of the pathway, it was the entrance of a circular room. The room had a higher ceiling than the pathway but it was the same dusty floor. A soft melody of violin solo flaoted through the room. There were paintings on the walls and on the racks everywhere in the room with torches for brightening and enable the viewers to study each painting. I looked around for familiar faces but I saw none. It seemed like a new group of people had taken over this place. I shrugged off my query and snatched a glass of gin when the waitress passed by. Well, at least the old tradition was still here.
A brightly colored painting attracted my eyes and i walked slowly toward it as if drawn by a magnet. I knitted my eyebrows as I stood in front of the painting. Attis joined me quickly but only glanced at the painting and moved her gaze onto me.
"What's so fascinating about this painting? I can only tell that it's an abstract. I don't get what the painter's trying to say," she questioned and waited for my answer patiently.
Tardily, I turned my attention back to Attis and replied, "You don't necessarily need to understand what the painting is about, although it wouldn't hurt you to do so. This is abstract, as you said. You look at how the painter used the elements of design with his imagination and creativity. The meaning of the painting is another story." I took a sip of my drink and continued, "Oscar Wilde said, 'Realistic painters only paint what the society sees, and the public never sees anything.' I agree with him on that point of view."
"That is a brilliant excuse for unable to produce realistic paintings," Attis successfully attacked both Wilde and I.
"This is the best I've found, yet," I replied sulkily.
Attis left me staring at the painting, and she went strolling about the room but never paused in front of a painting more than three minutes and moved on to the next. I knew that Attis didn't think much of the abstract art. She much preferred realistic landscapes, portraits, and still life paintings and thought that abstracts simply would not show the spirit of art.
"Abstracts are most expressional," I murmured closely behind Attis.
She turned to look at me for a second then said, "What's the use of an expression if no one could capture the meaning of it?"
I thought for a moment while playing with my glass and replied, "To express oneself is to reveal one's feelings. One must do that to survive. One could never hide his thoughts and feelings inside his heart for that's too much pressure. But to make others understand one's feelings and thoughts isn't necessary as to express. All expressions are meant to be told by indicating, it is not one's obligation if the listeners are incapable of comprehending." I emptied the glass and exchanged it with the waitress.
Attis smiled and responded, "That's much like falling in love with oneself and talking to one's self; if not caring others' comprehension."
I shrugged, poured te last drop of gin down my throat and said, "Why do I care? Let's go. I'm tired." She nodded in consent.

On our way back to the apartment, Attis stopped by the gorcery store.
"What's the matter?" I followed her.
"Oh, we're out of toilet paper. I didn't remember it 'til now."
"Again? The rapidity of human eating up toilet paper is much greater than cars burning up gasoline."
"That'd be the reason everyone craves to become immortal: no more toilet paper purchasing!"
I was at the liquor isle as usual, looking through the bottles. "Why the hell do they have gin in plastic bottles?" I muttered, "It doesn't look like liquor anymore if put into a plastic bottle. Glass is always the container of any liquor."

I sat up against the head of the bed and traced my fingers down Attis's bare back. She opened her eyes as if waking from a long and deep sleep.
"What are you thinking?"
"My mom."
"Something wrong?" she asked concernedly.
"Memory's been coming back to me, mostly about my mother," I sighed lightly.
"I'm morally quilty because I never respected my mother and hardly ever tried to pretend that I do."
"You're no moralist, Ren."
"It gets to me every now and then.
"My mother once remarked, 'You're just stubborn, wayward! There ain't a thread of artful element in you!' For as far as I can remember, she never appreciated anything that I made. My artwork to her was as valuable as a tail of cigarette that she stepped on. She predicted that I wouldn't be anything if I took painting seriously. She was right about that, though. But hey, am I anything now? Pssh!"
I buried my face in Attis's neck trying to swallow the tears of pain and resentment.
She patted my head in understanding, "Everyone's expected to be something his parents want him to be, but it doesn't work that way. You're you, not your mother..."
I waited for the last part to come but there came no answer. Disappointedly, I got up to make coffee. Attis stayed in bed quietly. I didn't know what she was thinking. I never knew what she was thinking.

I woke up in the morning found Attis's camera bad gone and a note by the coffee that said, "Dinner at six. Come pick you up." For a second I thought it was the note my mom had sent me years ago when she finally decided to talk to me.