The drugs were taking full effect as we stumbled through my apartment door. I chucked my keys on the coffee table as I invited Elio to take a seat on either the couch or the chair, which were the only furnishings that populated my modest living space. I rushed to my bedroom, where I quickly slapped on a fresh coat of deodorant, slipped on a clean t-shirt, and spritzed myself with my expensive Ralph Lauren cologne.

I strode into the living room, my shirt pulled half over my torso, and turned on the stereo. I fiddled around till I found a radio station that played a mixture of genres. Elio had already taken his seat, so I slid up beside him, careful not to allow my weight to upset the gentle positioning of the couch cushions.

His back was hunched forward with his head hovering over the coffee table. His gaze was fixed on his hands, which were busy cutting two huge lines of coke on the cover of a sketchbook I had left lying about. He rolled up a fifty-dollar bill he took from his wallet and snorted one of the lines. He handed the rolled-up currency to me and I snorted the other. The drugs coursed through my sinuses, causing my face to become momentarily numb. I leaned back against the couch and was temporarily paralyzed, though my muscles began to twitch uncontrollably from the effects of the high.

Seeming to sense my paralysis, Elio lit a cigarette, handed it to me, then lit one for himself. He took a long drag, which he exhaled slowly. Without ever looking at me, he placed his right hand on my left leg and began to run his palm along my thigh, his grip almost fully encircling its circumference.

It was then that I noticed his fingernails were painted white. Not perfectly painted though, for the many cracks and imperfections that permeated the paint job betrayed the amount of wear and tear which his hands had endured since their most recent colouration. I thought about how uncomfortable I felt the first and only time I ever painted my own nails. Though it may seem unusual to say, I swear I could feel the polish weighing heavily on my fingers, and it drove me crazy. To the point that I began clawing it off in a psychotically obsessive manner that led to my decision to never again adorn my hands with any kind of bedazzlement. Yet I found myself suddenly fascinated by Elio’s relatively simple physical adornment. So much so that, without even realizing, I was becoming increasingly enticed by Elio’s pursuant grip. 

I let out an involuntary, cat-like purr as his thumb grazed my genitals and I fought back the urge to grow hard. If he had any inkling of this, he offered no reaction. Rather, his eyes darted almost absent-mindedly around the multitude of drawings and paintings that were stacked against the apartment walls, making the space seem both cramped and vast. Every one of them was a depiction of a nude or bare-chested man. I marvelled at the fact that this caused him no discomfort.

As he stared intently at a painting I had done of an especially toned male figure, he began to stroke my leg much more slowly, allowing his fingers to dig deep into my flesh. He slid his hand up to my knee, which he tightly pinched. I let out a cry of both pain and exhilaration. He eased up, then slowly began rubbing his thumb and forefinger along the outer edge of my kneecap. Years of tension were being released by his fingers. I groaned as my leg twitched, and my breath grew heavy.

Elio glided his hand back down my thigh. This time his fingers seemed to be examining the thickness of my leg and trying to judge it in relation to his own. “Do you eat or are you the epitome of a starving artist?”

“I eat…sometimes,” I muttered as I began to squirm anxiously.

“Sure you do.” His tone strove to be passive and non-judgemental, but still betrayed the underlying anger and sarcasm of his remark.

He abruptly lifted his hand from my thigh. He stood up and walked briskly across the room, his arm stretched out to touch a painting I had done using heavy gel mediums, so it stood out in low relief from the flat surface of the canvas. He hesitated and his hand quivered. “Can I touch it?” he nervously asked.

I sauntered up beside him and wrapped my fingers around his outstretched hand, slowly guiding it to the edge of my sculptural painting. “Of course you can!” I whispered as I pressed my mouth against his ear.

He shuddered and forcefully pushed me away. He covered his mouth as though he were trying to prevent himself from vomiting. His breathing grew strained, and his torso began to heave beneath the tightness of his hoodie.

He rested against the armrest of the couch and slowly began to shake away his obvious anxiety attack. He tilted his head from the floor and began to stare at a blank, large-scale canvas I had propped against the exterior wall of my tiny kitchen.

A long, silent moment passed where I stared at him as he stared at the canvas. I imagined him imagining the painting I would create, the masterpiece that would fill that empty space while filling future viewers with a sense of awe and wonder.

Suddenly, a dizziness came over me. My vision clouded, and my body began to convulse. Elio turned to me, his face twisted into a look of concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quaking with fear.

“I’ll be fine!” I snapped as I desperately tried to control the hunger and drug-induced convulsions that racked my body.

Elio scanned me up and down, examining every aspect of my appearance. “Here, take my hoodie, you look like you need it,” he exclaimed as he whipped the navy-blue garment off his body and handed it to me. 

A bizarre feeling of lucidity passed over me as I pulled the hoodie over my head, and I was enveloped by its fleece-lined warmth. In that moment of clarity, I realized that I wanted Elio to become an important part of the rest of my life. But I didn’t want to let him know that. I wanted to play it coy. I wanted to be sly and mysterious. I wanted to believe that I was fooling him, but somehow, I knew I was only fooling myself. Because ultimately, he had only lent me his hoodie because he thought I was cold. What’s so noble or chivalrous about that? I mean, did it really mean anything?

I swirled my tongue along the inside of my mouth and clenched my teeth into the meaty muscle until my mouth filled with blood. 

“Thanks!” I muttered so quietly I wasn’t sure he even heard me. I swallowed my mouthful of blood and cringed at the metallic taste that danced along my taste buds.

“Do you want a drink?” I asked, louder then I needed to. “I want a drink! I’m going to make us each a drink!”

I rushed to the kitchen and poured us each a whisky and coke, heavy on the whisky. I slid back into the living room and found Elio sitting amongst a nest of pillows and blankets that he had apparently gathered from around the apartment and neatly arranged on the floor. He was positioned in front of the coffee table, where he was again cutting lines on the cover of the exact same sketchbook as before. I set his drink next to him as he finished inhaling the titanium white powder up his nostril. I sat down on the couch and snorted my line. I scooped up the remaining residue with my fingertips and rubbed it on my gums, which instantly became numb. I took a long swig of my drink and lit a cigarette, my body once again beginning to shake from the first on-set of the ensuing high.