COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 17 | Anatomy of a Dwarf Planet

Eventually, we return indoors, smelling of chlorine, bare feet on perfect marbled floors. We resume painting where we left off, hypnotized by our mutilated saint. I have the towel wrapped tight around my chest while she lets hers hang low on her hips, and I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing her in a bikini. In the air-conditioning, goosebumps raise on her hairy arms, and she has her thin eyebrows furrowed in absolute focus as she shades the brown skin of Guadalupe.

We paint for hours. Eris bears with me as I toil over the details, finally seeing my method. The beauty in correcting, in perfecting, in measuring. The red smudge from the other day is gone, forgotten, erased. Maybe the break actually helped... I may have to do that more often. The colors are more vibrant now. With fresh, sun struck eyes and the remnants of the THC, I'm tuned into the interconnections between all shapes, the fundamental structure of the painting. In my mind, I split it into varying depths and lines and golden ratios, explaining my grid of perfection to Eris. Instead of agonizing over every detail and stalling my progress, it's as if I'm able to focus on the ones that actually make a difference.

We don't speak. I sit as far away as possible, and she also seems intent on protecting her bubble of space. But as the hours pass, the golden hour sun streaming in through the giant windows receding, something strange starts happening. At first, she leans against me to reach a spot on my side of the painting, and I go stiff until she pulls away, forgetting the elaborate mental calculation I was working on. Then twenty minutes later, she does the same thing, except when she pulls back, she keeps her right arm pressed against my left and continues painting.

Is this intentional? Is this a game? Or does she simply not notice that we could very well give each other the metaphorical Bubonic plague with how close she's sitting to me, how bare she is in the air-conditioned room...

A drop of red paint falls off my brush onto my knee. Before I even register it, she wipes it off. But it's the way she wipes it off that makes my breath hitch—instead of using just a finger, her entire hand brushes across my knee, her multiple rings cold against me.

Instead of angles and shadows I'm consumed by the placement of my arms, my legs, her hands, and the increasing awareness that this is getting weird.

My rational brain scrambles to put a limit on what is acceptable: You hate her, you're disgusted by her, she's a criminal, she's a murderer; how could you let yourself become so deprived of human interaction you've resorted to spending time with her?

Yes, how could I? How could I allow her to sit so close? Why haven't I pushed her away with a snarky comment and a remark of disgust? Why do the seconds grow unbearably long every time she leans in front of me, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to trace the bones of her spine. Each individual vertebrae, like a lesson in anatomy. There are two dimples on the base of her back.

A knock on the door, and her mom comes in.

"A ver mija, ven a comer," Maria says. "Bring your friend."

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I can't believe that my life has culminated in this moment. Blazed off Eris Lugo's marijuana, wrapped in her towel, and sitting next to her in her kitchen with a plate of steaming food in front of me as her mother cooks, seemingly oblivious to our intoxication.

Eris nudges my arm and whispers, "Chill. You look tense as hell. Your eyes aren't even red. And my amá is cool with that kind of thing anyway."

I stare at the food—chiles rellenos, Maria called it. Baked green peppers stuffed with chicken, except mine is made with vegetables and tofu, Eris assured. I didn't even tell her mom that I'm vegetarian, and she took the time to make a plate tailored to my preferences. Other than my dad during his rare good, clean-the-entire-house and make-all-the-food-we'll-need-for-a-week moods, it's been years since someone has cooked for me like this. It reminds me of my mother, making Fitz and I bowls of légume and rice and buying half a dozen vegetarian cookbooks once we decided to stop eating meat.