. blind love

[stassi siminski]

"That blonde over there is checking you out." Stassi is stood on the balcony of the bar, a cigarette precariously dangling between her index and middle fingers. She takes a final drag, stubbing it out on the concrete balustrade, letting it fall to the ground where she gives it a stamp under her Alaïa heel for good measure. The shoes had been a manic purchase during her most recent episode, alongside the silver Paco Rabanne chainmail dress that was doing nothing to protect her from the chill of the NYC evening air. Even secondhand from trusty Tokyo Joe they had cost a lot more than she could realistically afford, but at least they were getting an outing. The cost by wear currently stood at around, oh, maybe $1,250 total across the outfit? It went some ways to explaining how she only had around $150 in her checking account. "I say checking you out... she's straight up eye-fucking you. I won't be mad at you if you take her up on the offer. I know I'm being a downer tonight."

[benicio otero]

The transition is a welcome shock to his system: hours spent holed up in his studio, to hours in new East Village bars surrounded by strangers. Pinning down his muse while the hurt was still fresh, putting out all the little fires ignited by heartbreak. But there was no one better to commiserate with than Stassi, someone who lived intensely and loved fiercely, in some ways a warped reflection of himself. Once upon a time, during his earliest days in New York, they had briefly indulged in one another those same proclivities. But Benicio is made present here, forced out of his head chasing down melodies and into his body, blood buzzing with loud bass and warm tequila. The smell of her short-lived cigarette, the chill of the night, the dress shimmering next to him. She points out the interest of a stranger and he’s briefly curious, appraising the view, never one for blondes. “Nah. I like our pity party,” he shrugged, not interested in abandoning her. Besides, this precarious place of existence was unwise to travel alone. “Be honest. This way we are,” he started, gesturing between them to this shared invisible nature of theirs. “What do you think: curse or superpower?”

[stassi siminski]

She mulls over what she's already said. Would she mind if he left right now? With barely a glance at the potential suitor he declines the opportunity and a relief ripples through Stassi, both at not losing her pity partner and at not being passed over for another woman. A novel experience at this point. "Curse," she says in answer to his question, not even sparing it a moment of consideration. How could it be anything but? She had spent most of the day in bed, unrequited desire lapping at her ankles, threatening to pull her under if she allowed herself even a second off from fighting against it. The apartment was in a state of dishevelment that would cause alarm to anyone visiting, even those who were familiar with her penchant for occult clutter and lacy fire hazards, no doubt a product of her drug binges and the lethargy that followed. It did not feel healthy, even to her. She gives him a look, a small smile on her lips as she sips on her dirty martini and puts words to her thoughts. "How could it be anything but? Wouldn't you give anything to be able to stop feeling like this, or at least to be able to turn it off for a while?"

[benicio otero]

It’s easy to disappear with a stranger, finding temporary relief in the body of another, trying to forget that a particular one existed. It's also a rare opportunity to tend to this friendship, to soothe the same wounds in someone who understood. Her answer nor its quickness surprise him, Benicio enjoying the predictability of his companion in heartbreak. But he’s not yet certain of his own answer, his opinion varying over the years depending on when asked. She poses an interesting question, his brow furrowing as he considered it, mulling it over with a long sip. “Sometimes,” he agrees tentatively, although what they were doing—drinking, escaping—bought some time between the crashing waves. “But if I did, my music would be garbage,” he followed up, a lazy chuckle echoing in his drink. If he thought of all the lyrics written in this state, the hours accumulated processing his emotions; most of his work was fueled by this. “And you would be so bored,” he surmised, dark eyes tipping her way in knowing. “I can’t imagine it.” They could theorize about upbringings and family dynamics and generational patterns, but that was more thought than either could probably handle. “Come on, you don’t have a spell or ritual or something for us?”

[stassi siminski]

Her limbs feel loosened by the alcohol, her heart lightened by the company. She's able to easily ignore the goosebumps on her skin, enjoying the chill of the evening in its stark contrast to the warmth of her bed, a place that had gone from feeling like a cocoon to feeling like a straight jacket the longer she spent in it. Beni gives the answer she expects of him too, though it turns her smile from coy to genuine, spreading across her face with ease. "You're such a tortured artist. Maybe it makes me a better door girl, too." She wished she had a more artistic pursuit to pour her energy into. The closest she came to was transforming herself, wielding a makeup brush, overpriced clothes and hair spray to take herself from hermit to New York nightlife nymph, painting on the version of herself she wished to present to the world. She was uncharacteristically vulnerable with him, though sincerity became more easy to share when his was so freely given. "Here's a little secret for you," she leans forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I'm always bored." She laughs easily, before tilting her head in consideration. "I probably could find a spell, actually. But tell me, what would you like it to do, and think carefully before you answer. It could cure you of this affliction entirely, or just make this particular moment pass... or, it could make her fall in love with you. That's powerful magic though, more likely to come with complications."

[benicio otero]

For a moment they can exist in this little pocket of the club, suspended from reality and numbed to the pain that awaits. It ebbs and flows, a cycle he knows deeply but can never predict well enough, a pointless pursuit trying to harness heartbreak. As much as it could be a motivator, in the case of his music, it could be a paralytic, in the case of her episodes. Whether it was luck or something else that determined the impact, he didn’t know that either despite the extensive experience. “The price I pay,” he hummed lightheartedly at her observation, no longer resistant to this fact. He liked the sound of that over what his sister called him. His attention wavers around the club and back to Stassi, deliciously influenced by her proximity and the strong drink balanced in his palm. He watches her hands, always so telling of a person and their feelings, before shrugging off his coat to offer to her when he noticed the rippling of goosebumps over her skin. She admits her secret and he breaks into a grin, rolling his eyes. “Even with me?” he asked innocently, feigning hurt. Of course Benicio knew they were both bored by the mundane, the easy, the expected; instant gratification and passionate extremes were much more appealing. When she offers tantalizing three choices of relief, he takes a moment to consider them. To be “cured” would mean to be equally blunted to the highs; to skip through this storm would feel like an ending to their story; to make her fall in love would be cheating the system. “My favorite bruja,” he drawled, “I think you already know.” He drained his drink, eyeing her. He should want to forget, to be impermeable, to break this pattern...but his relentless hope couldn't be helped. “Put a spell on me, make me a love potion, whatever it is."

[stassi siminski]

People mill around them, though her friends long since moved on. They were a mercurial crowd, bloodhounds for a party, constantly mining their connections to find out what was going on elsewhere regardless of how buzzy their current locale was. Never satisfied in the heat of the moment, enslaved to FOMO. As soon as Benicio and Stassi had started locking in on each other, they had drifted off, leaving with barely a goodbye. She hadn't missed them. Before she can decline it he's draping his coat around her, the smell of his cologne engulfing her and making her head spin. At this time of night, the taste of martini lingering on her tongue, she was suddenly reminded that he was a man-- and a handsome one, at that. "Thank you." She studies him as she offers her potential routes to salvation, aware of the near full moon above them and in full genuine belief of the powers it could have over their fates, particularly if called upon. She offers a sad, knowing smile as he indicates his choice, shaking her head. "It's one of the classes of magic that brings more back to you than you bargain for, most of it bad. You'd have to be very sure she's the one to even consider toying with those kinds of forces... you sure you want to play with fire?"

[benicio otero]

Benicio often got what he wanted, not out of luck or coincidence but through patience and stubborn determination. The idea of magic (despite growing up in a very Catholic household) as an easy means to a desired end, while tempting, was suspicious, laced with pitfalls and ominous risk. How he wished he could simply believe in what was being offered, opting to blindly sidestep fate. He leaned against the railing, body and attention angled toward Stassi, studying how vibrant she was while on this subject. Still a man, Benicio was neither blind nor immune to her beauty, always a standout at the club and within her own friend group—who had long since abandoned the pair. “This sounds very serious,” he noted, all the strings attached telling him what he needed to know. The drink shook empty in his hand, offering no help to his already slackened decision making. He leaned closer to the brunette, holding her haunted gaze. “Have you done it before?” he wondered, if her knowledge was shaped more by study or experience. The last time he played with fire he was severely burned, in the form of a toxic entanglement with his ex. The idea of that repeating, especially with a girl so different than what he was used to, felt like a grave cost. His head cocks to the side, brown eyes flickering across her figure, admiring the sight of her in his coat. “What if it backfires and makes me fall in love with you instead?”

[stassi siminski]

Light reflects from the surface of her dress, sending little illuminated discs across his face as he took in what she was saying with apparent seriousness. Most men would argue with her, or brush her interests off as insane-- it was something she liked about Benicio, whatever he thought, he stayed in his lane and treated her with respect regardless. "It is," she confirms. "Not since high school, and I regretted it. Not that it didn't work..." She finishes her drink, shaking her head to move hair out of her face as she returned her gaze to his. "The line between love and obsession is a thin one, and you don't realize what you truly want until it's too late. Plus, even if you get exactly what you want, would it ever feel real? It's almost like cosmic handcuffs." Instinctively her body language mirrors his, leaning towards him as he leans towards her, the distance tantalisingly close. What he says next makes her laugh, her eyebrows raising as she gives him a coy smile. "Now that, I can promise you you don't want. Definition of biting off more than you could ever realistically want to chew."

[benicio otero]

The more the risks were elaborated to him, the less certain Benicio was of his initial wish. It was a knee-jerk reaction toward the shiniest solution, but Stassi’s warnings rang in his ears. At the moment, all of the reminders of heartbreak were quiet in him: studio time channeled the energy, talking with his sister cleared his mind, sex and substances distracted from the feelings. The key was to keep moving, never letting any of it catch up; only time helped, until everything faded to a tolerable ache, or until something more exciting—someone new—came along and took precedence. But how long it takes, what the next stimulus is…that’s the maddening unknown. A magic spell is a tempting gamble, irresistible to a desperate man brought to his knees by unrequited love. Benicio listens to her experience and her disclaimers, the edges of reality pleasantly softened by however many drinks they had had, the floor humming with music, his senses tuned to Stassi. He watches a smile stretch her painted lips, his teeth briefly flashing in recognition. “What do you think would happen?” he dared to wonder out loud, indulging this dangerous curiosity. “If you and me loved each other,” he clarified, palm ghosting to her lower back as he leaned in, making certain she would hear him. “How good do you think it would be.. But how bad do you think it would end?”

[stassi siminski]

Her eyes pay close attention to his as she watches him mull over everything she's said. It shouldn't mean so much to be listened to, to be truly heard, but years of dating in New York City had left her jaded and disenfranchised when it came to men and their intentions. Not that she particularly believed he had any intentions at all, nefarious or otherwise. They were both taking the night as it came, changing venues at her friends' whims, letting them go without complaint, different music and crowds and people all just a backdrop to their ongoing conversation. She laughs again, a light laugh with more warmth than her last, enjoying the feeling of his hand on the small of her back. Enjoying everything about him in that moment. "An interesting thought experiment," she says, turning it over in her mind. It would be fiery, that's for sure. A snapshot of a memory flits through her head; her last serious boyfriend, on his knees with his expensive suit soaked to the elbows, her naked form on the tiles of her bathroom floor after he'd heaved her out of the overflowing tub. She suppresses the thought. "It wouldn't end well. I think only one of us could come out of that alive, potentially neither of us." Another sly grin, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "But god, it would be fun while it lasted, wouldn't it?"

[benicio otero]

Here they were, two people who felt deeply and loved intensely but were drawn to those who didn't reciprocate as needed. Fools apart but comrades together. Maybe that’s what had kept them apart that way all this time: a mutual understanding that one of them was bad enough, but two of the same would be catastrophic. Long ago they had agreed they weren’t each other’s types romantically; sharing bodies was easy, but not opening hearts. It was easier for them to step aside, returning when the inevitable happened in their separate lives. He considered Stassi an equal, grateful for her advice as well as her understanding, and the occasional gratification they both needed. He heard of her relationships in passing—in stories and complaints and drunken confessions—but tried to imagine himself on the receiving end. “Disastrous,” he agreed with a mischievous grin, unfazed by the implications when it was too fun to indulge in the fantasy. “But amazing. Truly world-ending; I know I wouldn't make it.” If anything, they should be proud of having good sense enough to realize this and practice self-preservation. He excused himself briefly to refresh their drinks, returning with two glasses, offering a quick cheers to their miseries. “Tell me about it,” Benicio said after a beat, eyes wandering the club, the moving mass of tangled people. “Your worst one.” The hardest heartbreak.

[stassi siminski]

In truth, Stassi was chasing something she was scared of. It was easy to blame the brutality of the city's dating scene, or another person's reticence, or at least easier than staring directly at the truth-- she longed to be in love, but whenever it seemed possible, she shrank from it. It was a key difference between the two of them, Beni brimmed with the courage she lacked. She wonders what they look like here, her draped in his coat, huddled together in conspiratorial comfort. She was sure they could pass for lovebirds. "Not the kind of thing anyone could survive unscathed." He disappears and she casts her eyes around the crowds around them, wondering what conversations were unfolding around their own. Surely none so interesting, certainly none so authentic. She clinks her glass against his, "to surviving!" A groan escapes her as the drink velvety vermouth spreads across her tongue, his question leading her to shake her head and hold her hand up in surrender. "Please, no, it's too embarrassing. Trust me, I really know how to pick 'em." She knows this won't fly with him, sighing as she decides how much to say. "Honestly, I don't think I've ever been in love, not really. Not with an actual boyfriend, anyway. You tell me yours, inspire me."

[benicio otero]

His sister called him a love addict, more fond of the pursuit than the possession. He seemed to thrive in that chaotic gray area between possessed and bored, teetering between the extremes. Perhaps it was simply a creative brain, or a learned proclivity, or an unwillingness to knock the illusion of true love from off its pedestal. “I thought it was my first one,” he started, his memory drifting into the past. “When I was a teenager. We were high school sweethearts, grew up together, all that. She moved away for college and I moved to Miami,” he summarized, the quintessential story of romance stopping at a forked path. A difficult choice, a life of wondering what-if. “But my last real girlfriend, Isa?” he said with a whistle—the kind that can crudely summarize a plane crash or a cartoon character plummeting off a cliff. “She’s the reason I left Miami. When guys say their ex was crazy…that doesn’t even come close,” he chuckled, his face warm with a sardonic grin. “It started good. She was beautiful, exciting. We even lived together during quarantine. We partied a lot, she liked the lifestyle; she wanted to be famous,” he explained, nursing his drink. “By the end it was so bad. She loved to fight, it was always so explosive,” he remembered when the lows drastically outweighed the highs, unable to recover before another wave hit. “She never trusted me. Constantly accused me of cheating on her,” he said, waving off the details. Her needing his location, interrogating his friends, demanding pictures of his surroundings, smelling his clothes when he got home. “She wanted it to be true so I finally did it. Two, three girls everyday for a week,” he recounted vengefully, his blood rushing in memory. “Then she fucked my friends, keyed my car, trashed our apartment,” he trailed off in amusement, almost surreal in the disconnect from now to in the moment. “The last time I saw her she was screaming at me. Broke my equipment, threatened me. She was begging for me to hit her. She wanted it to be even worse.” He moved to show her his hand, a knuckle twisted with an old scar. “I hit a mirror on the wall next to her. When I saw the way she looked at me, I knew I had to walk away."

[stassi siminski]

Ah, first loves. Stassi supposed it made sense that his first love was a doozy, maybe that was what had set him off on this same path she was on, always chasing the high of the first. "You were probably one of those couples I always hated in school, canoodling in the hallways between periods. Disgusting." She smiles at him, though it wavers for just a second as he describes his last girlfriend as crazy. Red flag. It was such a typical thing for men to say, and though Benicio was not a typical man, she couldn't help but be triggered by the phrasing. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that it was the adjective most commonly ascribed to her by her former flames, each with varying reason and legitimacy. But she swallows the feeling down, making herself hear him out before she jumped down his throat about a word choice. As she listens, the legitimacy becomes more concrete, and she's relieved about that. She wouldn't have to cancel him after all. "Do you think there are any quarantine relationships still going? It seems like they were all set up to fail." She listens, rapt. Images of what the girl could look like flitted through her mind, each possibility more beautiful than the last... she'd inevitably end up stalking his Instagram following later. Fighting, trust issues, high highs and low lows... these were all things she was familiar with, too familiar.  "Beni, three girls a week?!" Stassi says with some shock, hitting him as he describes the cheating. She lets out a low whistle as she studies his knuckle, echoing the one he opened it with. "Fuck. Well, yeah, that sounds toxic as hell. Have you considered a restraining order?" A sly grin spreads across her face, "do you think I'm in danger? Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you."