Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman

on his walls made me ache, made me feel high, crazy, reckless.
    And Sal started to stand closer to me, to touch my shoul- der or my waist as he guided me from one work of art to the next. Standing next to him, his breath tickled my neck.
    Do you fuck a man for the sake of his art collection?
    Of course not.
    Do you fuck him for his excellent taste? Probably not.
    Do you fuck him for the artistic soul beneath the macho facade? Because you’re drunk and lonely and have nothing better to do?
    Possibly.
    Do you keep fucking him because you like him, even though he’s fat and bald and has at least three other girl- friends not to mention an ex-wife and a daughter your own age?
    Yep.
    For a while you do. And for a while you’re almost happy, if the absence of total misery and a good fuck to look forward to equal happiness, which sometimes they do.
    Then Sal, while helping me move to a new apartment, found out that I painted.
    “Whoa, babe,” he said. “What’re you doin’ with all this?
    You do this?” “I used to.”
    “Used to, bullshit! What’s the matter with you?”
    “Sal, I can’t. I can’t talk about it. Can you tape this box?” “We’re not done talkin’ about this.”
    “Okay. Another day though, okay?”
    A couple of months later, Sal was still bugging me. “What are you working on? Why aren’t you painting?
    What the fuck you doin’ workin’ security? You gonna let it go to waste, babe, or are you gonna put your balls on the line?” Etcetera.
    I ducked and dithered and stonewalled until I was exhausted.
    One day, I lay on his satin-covered bed in a post-coital, alcoholic stupor, and he started in again.
    “You’re a fuckin’ mess, aren’tcha?” he said. “Hunh?”
    “About the art. You used to look at it like you wanted to eat it or something, but now.. .”
    “What?”
    “Now you don’t,” he said.
    “So? I’m used to it. I’ve seen it. I’d rather look at you.” “Bullshit,” he said, and got up from the bed and started
    pacing naked around the room. “You’re avoiding it. That Kostabi in the hallway? The one you used to stand in front of all the time? Just today I saw you look away from it, like it might burn you.”
    I was silent.
    “You think I don’t know?” he said. “I may seem like a meathead to you—”
    “No.”
    “Or maybe I don’t seem . . . enlightened, or whatever that shit is women want these days, but I’m not stupid, and I know an artist when I see one. I know when a person’s wasting their life too.”
    “Can I have a drink?” I said. “And that’s another thing.” “What?”
    “You know.”
    I looked away. “Sal, I’m fine.”
    “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, babe. It pisses me off.”
    I looked back at him. He stood at the foot of the bed, eyes glaring, penis dangling, hands on hips, looking like a bulldog.
    “So what would it take to get you outta this sorry state?” “I don’t want out of it. I’m fine.”
    “Right. Listen, much as I think you’re a great piece of ass, I don’t think the drinking and the fucking are gonna do it for you long term.”
    I shrugged.
    “Fine, your funeral, babe,” he said, and walked out of the bedroom and shut the door.
    Great piece of ass. Humph.
    I found him an hour later staring out the window at his million-dollar view of downtown. I reached out to touch his arm.
    “Sal.. .”
    “I got an idea,” he said. “I’m gonna get you fired.” “What?”
    “From downstairs.” “Very funny.”
    “I’m serious.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Great idea.” “And I wanna buy all your stuff.” “What!”
    “Some of it’s shit, but some of it isn’t. I can do something with it.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like what? Like sell it, whaddya think like what?” “Oh. Well.. .”
    “Wait, I’m not done,” he continued. “And don’t say no right away.”
    “Okay.”
    “I’m gonna buy your stuff, and be your, whaddya call it? Patron. I’ll be your patron and like, pay you to paint. But you