. blind love

[benicio otero]

It’s the first time he has talked about Isabel in a long time, feeling his blood run cold despite the drink level lowering in his hand. That was almost three years ago, many other girls drifting in and out since then but nothing as taking, none sticking quite the same. Sometimes he wondered if she had ruined him, left him for worse in the aftermath of their poisonous relationship. “I won’t lie, I was toxic too,” he admitted, palms offered up in surrender, their shoulders touching. “But I was never like that before. She brought out the worst in me,” he reasoned, having wrestled with his own morality during the relationship. In the same vein, after a certain point there was nothing good left in her to bring out. Still he wasn’t proud of it, a black mark in his record and a sore spot in his memory. “I wouldn’t, either,” he murmured in clarification; about being inclined to cheat, about ever laying a hand on a woman. Although he would never label it as outright abusive, their time was certainly rife with red flags: fanatical jealousy, violence, the alienation of family and friends. “I haven’t seen her since. I wish her the best, I really do. But she’s a ghost now,” he said, by which he was no longer haunted. With so much off his chest (by his own question), Benicio swallowed more alcohol and breathed out relief. “Now you,” he ribbed, dark eyes flashing toward her in invitation.

[stassi siminski]

The transformative power of relationships was well known to Anastasia. She had seen it time and time again, in her own partners yes, but with friends and even her parents. How a seed could be planted and could grow into something twisted, one of those suffocating plants that strangled its host and sucked the life out of it. "So long as you can see that," she said, though obviously he could. But love was like that, wasn't it? It made you believe things would get better, even as they continued to get materially worse by the second. "I know you wouldn't." Her hand finds his forearm, giving it a soft squeeze. She was grateful that he was being so honest with her, baring a part of himself for her benefit, blemishes and all. It's a moment of tenderness that breaks through their usual lighthearted push-pull dynamic, though they're quickly sinking back into it as she nods, knowing it was her turn. She sighs. "Nothing as dramatic as that. I haven't really dated many people seriously... there's one ex, the big one." Her eyes glance around the crowd once more, as if she'd see her ex here, lurking amongst the revellers in his Loro Piana suit. Unlikely. It surprises her how hard it is to talk about him, given she was happy to spill her guts on TikTok, though this felt altogether more... naked. "We broke up a year or so ago. Maybe it's longer now, I lose track of time. Anyway. It was doomed to fail, he works on Wall Street doing something I never understood but knew made a shit ton of money, since he told me all the time. Preston. He had a real knack for making me feel less than." A sip of Dutch courage. "It was toxic too, on both sides. I kept insane hours and so did he, just opposite insane hours. When we did see each other I was either just starting my night or just finishing it, and he was on his way to the office or off to some luncheon with his cunt of a mother or whatever the fuck it was that he was doing." How to summarize the shitshow that was their life? "I acted out, he cheated, we threw things at each other too. One time he was ignoring me for a week and I lost it, I took a shitload of meds and fell asleep in the tub... I guess I must have been on the phone to him, or texted him or something, because next thing I come to in an ambulance and he's there too, white as a ghost. I don't know." She clears her throat, avoiding his eye for the first time this evening. Eventually she meets it, forcing a smile. "Just a silly mistake. He never really got over it, though."

[benicio otero]

The greatest conundrum: how intoxicating love is, but simultaneously dangerous and precarious. The powers to distract and paralyze and make one forget, completely blurring memories and alleviating the otherwise lonely human condition. It’s a drug of its own, addictive from the first high and irresistible in the pursuit, nothing else quite as good. There is nothing free or easy in life, affairs of the heart the hardest way to learn such a lesson. Her touch is on his arm and Benicio appreciates it, an anchor thrown from the mess of his memories, watching her fingers close around his tattooed skin. About her story he is more curious, convinced that his vulnerability invites hers and ok with the fact, touting himself as an open book. There was always an exchange here: pain for pain, honesty for honesty. He listens intently, watching her mouth when the music seems to grow too loud and he might lose track of her words. He feels a subconscious jab to his psyche at her mention of feeling inferior, briefly reminded of Rosie. He sees how destructive it is to a woman, how lasting the effects are that these men and their ripples persist for years, long after they are gone. But she confirms how people are altered by their relationships, changing for better or worse, emerging as something else. He considers her story: should he be thankful that this didn’t happen until much later in her life, or that it nearly cost her her life? “Damn, Stassi,” he lets out heavily, arm sent to her waist in comfort. He wasn’t expecting that, seeing through her false smile. “I’m sorry,” he offers although it is from the wrong mouth and won't register how she needs. He rubs the curve of her back beneath his coat, wishing he could lend more permanent layers to protect her from her love life. “Someone who makes you feel like that, but then pretends to rescue you from what they did? He didn’t deserve you.”

[stassi siminski]

It's more than she meant to say, but he had that effect on her. Benicio and Stassi's conversations were mostly reserved for the small hours of the night, lubricated with liquor and the familiarity that came from a history of shared intimacy, both physical and emotional. It was the latter that she struggled with more, earnestly wanting to be as open as he was, to share stories that were as honest as his. But there was always a fear in revealing herself. She'd seen it enough times, the look on someone's face when she'd let the mask slip more than she'd meant to. The look that showed the penny dropping for them, the realization that she wasn't just charmingly chaotic. The look that said: oh, you're, like, crazy crazy. So when that look fails to appear and a warm arm is slipped around her waist instead, she's so relieved that tears actually threaten to form. Because that would really make her seem sane. Suppressing it, she gives him a proper smile, shaking her head at his kindness, feeling undeserving of it. "Oh I was kind of out pocket. To put it mildly." She slips her own arm around his shoulders, enjoying his scent, instinctively closing the gap between their bodies. She squeezes him in a hug, hoping she can press her gratitude into him, that it would seep through his pores. "Hey, do you wanna get out of here? There's a dive bar down the street that's less... this," she gestures to the throng, where people are shouting to be heard over the increasing volume of the bass.

[benicio otero]

For a moment he wondered what the story of his ex might sound like, shouted against another man’s ear in a dim, loud club, outlining her woes about their relationship. What details she would differ, the particular words plucked from her vocabulary, which memories stood out enough to share. Of course he has to accept that he is only receiving Stassi’s edited version but it doesn't matter, automatically siding with her and her experience, loyally positioned behind her. “I don’t care,” he protested, stubbornness strengthened by his building tipsiness. “I don’t want you to ever feel like that again,” Benicio said regardless, shaking his head, briefly wondering about her current infatuation and how the mysterious man differed (if at all). He’s pulled into an embrace and Benicio quickly relaxes into it, inhaling her scent, kissing the top of her head as he returned the gesture. The desire to protect her is effortless, guarding the good in her that he saw, hoping to spare her from the darkest shadows. She wants to relocate and he understands why, a crowd building on the ground floor. He drains his drink, listening to her. “Fine with me,” he nodded without another thought, aware of the familiar shuffle of venues at this hour, the peculiar shapes the masses could take. “I’ll go where you go.”

[stassi siminski]

If Preston were here to see this he would have a field day. His suspicions of any male friends, gay or straight, were so outlandish, though the fact she only saw people in the dead of night did little to assuage them. Beni was warm and free with his affection, two things Preston never was, and more than that, he was empathetic. Stassi took a few seconds to bottle this memory, the feeling of safety with a man who wasn't just pretending to care in the hopes that he'd end up in her bed later on. "And I don't want you to ever get pushed into being someone you're not ever again!" Her own tipsiness makes her laugh and she holds up her pinky finger. "Pinky promise not to let ourselves - or each other - slip back into old habits." It's so stupid, such a trivial gesture in the face of his genuine care, but that's something she's going to file away within herself and revisit at length when she feels more up to it. She downs the rest of the drink she probably doesn't need, taking his hand and pulling him through the crowds and to the door, her free hand holding his coat so it didn't slip off in the fray. Before long they're on the street, but she doesn't let go of his hand, swinging it childishly. "I'm having so much fun. Are you?"

[benicio otero]

When their pinkies wind together in a promise to not resort to old habits, he is eager for that to be enforced. If there is any magic to come true tonight, it’s that they vary their behavior enough to avoid cautionary tales that should be etched in their bones by now. Out on the street and the air is near freezing, although he doesn’t miss the protection of his coat when he sees it obscuring her skin, as if keeping them both warm by proxy. Stumbling through the city at night is nothing new, although maybe these days it is more of an anomaly compared to his first few months in New York. Nights like these were reserved for celebration or commiseration, with little difference between the two in terms of vigor and intent. At some point on the way out of the club and to the next venue their hands come together, unquestioned even long after necessary, swinging between them down the sidewalk. He doesn’t know which club or bar is next, trusting her judgment and her knowledge of these neighborhoods, pulling her to him until they bumped sides. “Stassi I’ve never had a bad time with you,” he reassured, fingers flexing within hers. They could be leading each other off of cliffs and he wouldn't care. “If I write a song about a Polish girl, don’t be surprised.”

[stassi siminski]

It was easy to make drunken promises in clubs, whispering them into a night that was taking no notes. But it's easier to believe in this one when it's shared with Benicio, someone who committed to the things he did, who let each word sit on his tongue before he said it. She trusted him, truly trusted him, and that wasn't even something she could say about Pat, though he'd given her no reason to think otherwise. Everything Ben says makes her smile stretch, her heart feeling light for the first time in weeks. "Neon Indian beat you to it," she says, smile turning coy at the implication that there's ever been a song written about little old her. A nearby dive bar had been singing its siren song to her all evening, or at least since they'd gotten to the club and her feet guide them there without her having to think about it, smiling at the bouncer and skipping the line as she tended to do in almost every NYC establishment. As much as the club was her work and her lifestyle, the dingy comfort of a dive bar was where she usually liked to lead on to, eschewing the pumping music for deep, drunken conversation. They find seats by the bar and she puts their order in with a barman she thinks she might have slept with once, long ago, but can't be sure, so instead she turns back to her friend. "What if my boy and your girl are sat in a bar somewhere across town talking about us? What do you think they'd be saying?"

[benicio otero]

Their backdrop blurs from the streets to a new location, as if plucked from one place and dropped straight into another, sidling up to a strange bar waiting for evermore drinks. He’s lost count and relinquished any grasp on controlling the night, existing simply for the next moment, seeing only Stassi and reveling in their understanding. He trusted her, too; she was refreshingly honest, even when she might mask with humor or self-deprecation. It might take some prodding but there was more beneath those outer layers intended to distract and deceive, like a false black widow spider. Behind the beauty she was strange and sweet and, secretly, quite soft to require such a hardy façade. If there’s any pinky promise they should have made, it would be to not forget how this felt, how easy they were together–with or without substances. At her question he nearly laughs, trying to gather such an image in his mind of Rosie, outside anywhere, even breathing his name. In truth, he would be happy to somehow know that she still thought about him. Wanting to play along and inflate the hypothetical, Beno broke into a grin. “All complaints. ‘They’re too much. Too sexy, too funny, too smart,’” he teased in a raspy falsetto, laughter drowned out in a new cocktail glass. “Look at what they are missing out on. I bet they are kicking themselves right about now,” he hoped, preferring optimism.

[stassi siminski]

There are whispers around them, an air of recognition across a gaggle of girls behind them who start speaking in rapid, excited Spanish amongst themselves. It was so easy to forget that he was someone people recognized, known for his talent but then she did wonder if he'd be known by his appearance too if it weren't so pleasing on the eye. "I give it five minutes before they come over," she murmurs, picking up her drink having forgotten what she even ordered. A sweet sourness followed by a burnt bitter taste crosses her tongue and of course, it's a Cosmo, her favorite thing to order when she was playing up to her Sex and the City fantasy. It was even cute to imagine herself as these girls were going to see her, what would they think of her, would they think she was his girlfriend? Someone he picked up at another bar? It was crazy to think that once upon a time that's what they were to each other, two strangers drinking and flirting, totally unawares of who they could become to one another. His idea of the mirrored conversation makes her laugh, a proper, hearty laugh that rings out across the bar, her head tilting back. "God, imagine," she says, trying hard to picture a situation in which Pat and Rosie would be having anything even remotely to do with each other. Though she didn't know Rosie, Benicio had painted a vivid picture, and to hear him tell it Pat would fall for her on sight, as would any man. "I bet they had to cut their night short so they could both go home to cry themselves to sleep."

[benicio otero]

He overhears his native tongue behind them just as soon as Stassi does, turning briefly enough to catch a glimpse of curious young women. As his career grew over the years so too did the recognition, the information, and the fans. It was still a peculiar, almost surreal byproduct of his work as more of his life became public. Each song, award, or interview pushed him further from anonymity, no longer able to walk into random house parties in East Harlem or go unnoticed in the crowd of a friend’s show. “If they do, start speaking Polish to me,” he suggested as a diversion tactic, tugging at the brim of his hat for extra camouflage. “Do your TikTok people ever bother you in public?” he wondered in the same vein, not ignoring the possibility that strangers out there could be enthusiasts about them both. Unfortunately, this was not the attention they truly desired, the same two people they laughed about in speculation. “You just have to feel sorry for them,” he agreed with a shrug, easier to pretend than to actually think about what Rosie was doing in contrast to their pity party. His arm came to rest on the back of her chair behind her, close again, humored features slackening. “What is it about this guy for you?”

[stassi siminski]

"Nie mówię po polsku!" She was a very typical third generation immigrant, her Polish fractured at best, though she could understand more than she could say. Teenaged summers working in her parents' Polski sklep had taught her the odd phrase, mostly to do with groceries or the weather, but she was distant from her heritage, identifying much more strongly as a native New Yorker. She can sense the girls building up the courage to approach and she wondered briefly if she was off-putting to them, if perhaps they would have felt more comfortable with a man. If only they knew what it was they were theoretically interrupting. "Mhmm, sometimes. But mainly at the Box, where people know I work anyway, so it's less... unexpected?" His next question is a good one and she gives it the thought it deserves. "He's just... nice." She hears herself and it makes her snort; the bar was low, but it wasn't that low. "He's different. He's ambitious without being arrogant, he's kind without being soft, he's open but hard to read. It's like every time I speak to him I get the comfort of the known and the thrill of something new, which I've never really experienced in one person." Another sip. "Come on then, what's so great about Rosie?"

[benicio otero]

The sound of Polish momentarily throws off his senses, perhaps enough to keep outside interest at bay. This time Benicio hopes he isn’t approached, not tonight; he doesn’t want to spoil this moment or attract the type of attention that could run them out of the bar. If they’re brave he might oblige a picture, but after so many run-ins he was bored by the typical interactions: I love [this song] or what’s [this artist] really like? or do you listen to your own music?. Instead, his favorite encounters were with those who claimed to be inspired by him or his style, people who didn’t even speak the language but loved the music he and his clients put out. “Have you ever hooked up with a fan?” he asked with a grin, convinced he already knew so. He wondered what his moniker might be in her social diaries, although he enjoyed his anonymity there too—minus his own enthusiastic online presence, of course. At some point he likely heard about Pat, but not in this current consideration. He listened to her, slowly draining his drink as she painted a picture of someone so unlike what he remembered of boyfriends or hookups past. The stark contrast to the infamous one, and the worst one he’d just learned of. The person she describes sounds like Rosie and it shocks him, but then it doesn't; Benicio realizes why they are both so preoccupied. “She’s different too,” he echoed, nodding as the words seemed to align from both of his mental dictionaries. “Anything I thought I knew about her? She surprises me again and again,” he described, the very first memory lost in translation. A Spanish girl who doesn’t speak Spanish, whose rare smiles should be meticulously counted, an impressive brilliance packed into a small package. “She’s the smartest, I pretend I can keep up. And I’ve never seen anyone work harder,” he continued, although she usually only heard about how beautiful she is. “It like she’s on stage, and I’m in the crowd. A million people: everyone wants her. But the second she looks at you?—the greatest feeling,” he groaned, remembering her gaze like a spotlight. He could go on: about the reward of her true laugh, how they'd never been bored together, the chill of her guard gone with the warmth of her silly humor. "I think I try so hard with her not because I can't take no for an answer, but because I'm worried if I stop, that'll be it. She'll be gone."

[stassi siminski]

Given her line of work and general social circle, Stassi was no stranger to celebrity. One of her dear friends was Annie Scott, a much maligned but incredibly famous social media star, and going anywhere with her was a nightmare that she had quickly gotten used to. But she felt somehow more defensive of Benicio, or at least of her time with him. Hoping it would prove a deterrent, she inches her bar stool closer to his, her voice lowering as she places a hand on his leg and leans in to murmur in his ear, "let's make it too awkward for them to interrupt." She laughs, shaking her head to his question. "No. My audience is almost entirely teenage girls and the men who feature in my videos. So yes, actually, if you want to count them as fans. Don't tell me you have!" She made a mental note to look him up on Reddit later, to see if there were any stories swirling around. Maybe she'd write some just for fun. A manicured hand goes to her chest as he describes Rosie, her lower lip jutting in a pout as she felt a pang of empathy for him. He was down bad. "Oh Beni, who needs love spells when you talk like that?" She considers what he's said, and the results he's had thus far. "Are you sure it might not be the opposite? Maybe she needs to see that you won't always be there, maybe she'd come to you."

[benicio otero]

With her hand on his thigh, his moving across her lower back to hold her hip, he was sure they were something to behold to the average eye. Unless Rosie herself showed up, there wasn’t much that could be done by any bystander to take precedence over this. At the return of his own question, Benicio offered a tight shrug in non-answer. He pulled at his lip with his teeth, brows jumping. “They were always fans after,” he teased low and raspy near her ear, tipping into a laugh and bracing for a playful jab from her. He wondered about their audiences and different demographics; more and more he was becoming aware of beautiful women from all corners of the world, questions about a solo album, comments about the attractive shadow-man behind the scenes. When he’s done describing Rosie (is he?) he promptly orders a shot of something stronger, waving off her kindness. He knew the state he was in, how it sounded to outside ears: as if he had never felt anything like this before, could never hope to recover. At least, he preferred Stassi’s gentler approach to his sister’s brutal honesty. “I know, I know,” he groaned, sucking in a breath after he downed the shot, relishing its warm descent through his chest. “That’s all I can do now,” he resigned, their last text message a dwindling thread between them. “What are you worried about with him?” Benicio volleyed back, eyeing her. “Why not go for it?”