February 3, 2024
Ricki was standing at her Wilde Things workstation on the heels of the slowest day at the shop thus far. Aside from the delivery guy from Sexy Taco (it’d become her favorite restaurant), no one had rung the buzzer all day. After consulting her budgeting software, she realized that her problem was money. She was spending lavish amounts on the most exotic, precious breeds. Her designs were breathtaking—the kind that had garnered her a massive IG following—but in real life, this “quality over everything” approach was going to bankrupt her.
I need to budget more wisely, she thought, tucking a fancy bougainvillea stem into a wreath. I need to stop… stop…
Stop thinking about him. I need to stop thinking about him.
With a frustrated groan, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Garden Gentleman’s face kept popping into her brain. Rudely and unexpectedly. He was a six-foot-two-inch (ish?) intrusive thought.
It was just a random encounter. Just two people startling each other in the dark. So why did her stomach drop fifteen floors every time she thought of him?
Stop, thought Ricki. You’re already dating a perfectly nice person. Yes, Ali thought the vice president’s name was Caramel Harris. But no one’s perfect, least of all you.
“… so, what time should we go?”
Ricki shook her head, coming back to reality. Ali was sitting on the emerald throne, scrolling through his phone.
“Sorry, I zoned out. Where are we going?”
“Sweet Colette bakery is hosting that community art party tonight. I’m one of the featured artists? I get to show three pieces.”
“Oh, right!”
“Yeah, you know, 2024 is all about making profits off this art. It’s time to acquire my own domicile. Energetically speaking, my roommates are cool. But living with a throuple is not gucci.” He fished around in his pocket. “The fuck are my abundance crystals?”
“Which three paintings will you show? The portraits of me, maybe?” Jokily, Ricki batted her lashes.
“You’re so distracted with work, my queen. Remember, I told you the owner used one of my Ricki portraits for the social media invite? And today, he printed it out and stuck flyers around the neighborhood, old-school style. Your face is all over Harlem.”
Ricki had been so focused on the shop, nothing besides her latest orchid delivery had penetrated her consciousness.
“I really need to get out more,” she said, rubbing her bleary eyes. “So, you’re showing one of my portraits. What are the other two?”
“My spirit hasn’t led me to that answer yet. I might show pieces from the New School class I started last week.” He winked. “It’ll be a surprise.”
The evening of February 3, there was a frost in the air, but the sky was crystalline blue, cloudless. Socially speaking, a party was exactly what Ricki needed. Once she’d recovered from the mistaken-nationality moment at that networking event, she’d decided to introduce herself to one person a day. The smoothie specialist at her favorite juice bar. The owner of the West African spot where she ate dinner weekly. The clerk at her favorite bookstore who knew her penchant for Eva Mercy’s vampire erotica novels. And after every connection she made, she felt more at home.
An hour into the party, Sweet Colette was thrumming with feel-good vibes. Folks were shoulder-dancing to midtempo bops and helping themselves to sugary cake pops and dry martinis. Ricki was feeling cute in a 1940s lace blouse and a clingy slip skirt. Plus, tonight, she was winning the anxiety battle. She’d bravely introduced herself to Glenroy St. Jermaine, owner of Sweet Colette and fledgling artist, and they were having a delightful conversation.
“So, we’ll be unveiling the art in like thirty minutes. Wait till you see my painting. The subject is an abstract oversized bird,” said Glenroy, a lanky dude in a gauzy kimono and Adidas. “Oil on canvas. Hazy, almost holographic strokes.”
“It sounds surreal,” gasped Ricki. “Like you saw the bird in a dream.”
“I did see the bird in a dream! How’d you know?” Glenroy shoved her shoulder playfully. “We’re twin flames. You get me, my good sis.”
“I always do.” She’d known him for only seven minutes.
“Anyway, to make the body, I painted my ass cheeks and then smashed them on the canvas. It was gonna be a crab, but when I started the detail work, it turned into a bird.”
Don’t do it, thought Ricki. Don’t tell him your crab anecdote; don’t self-destruct…
“Hey, did you know that nature has evolved five different non-crab animals into crabs over history? Apparently, it’s the perfect form. Studies suggest we’ll all be shaped like crabs one day. Crazy, right?”
He stared at her, then died laughing. “I think you need a drink, Bill Nye.”
Shaking his head, he disappeared into the crowd. Slowly, Ricki backed up against the wall. Grasping her martini for dear life, she tried to breathe through her mortification. She was, in fact, a fool. There was no scenario where that fun fact would be appropriate, except for, perhaps, a convention of 2012 Science Tumblr addicts.
Exasperated, she squeezed her eyes shut. And, like clockwork, Garden Gentleman’s face blanketed her brain. She was losing her mind.
When she opened her eyes, there was Tuesday, wielding a cookie in one hand and—because she was three years sober—a Shirley Temple in the other. As usual, she was trying her best to fly undercover as an anonymous baddie: joggers, chunky sneakers, slick bun.
“You came!”
“Of course I came. Free baked goods were involved.” She batted her eyelashes. “Notice anything about my complexion?”
Ricki appraised her skin. “Excuse me, you’re radiant.”
“My new writer’s block obsession is skincare. I just spent all day ordering luxury Korean skincare online. I wanna look poreless and heavily filtered. Like a sensual cyborg.” She licked frosting off her finger. “Ugh, I’m never gonna finish my memoir. To jest okropne.”
It was startling, hearing Tuesday drop a foreign phrase. “You said what, now?”
“To jest okropne. It means ‘this is terrible’ in Polish.”
“You never fail to surprise, babe.”
“My mom’s Polish! She moved here at eighteen and became a coat check girl at the Roxy, where she met my dad, an aspiring backpack rapper from Houston. They fell in ’90s hip-hop love, had me, and then he got deported for running a fraudulent phone sex service where he’d pretend to be several lusty women. Turns out, he wasn’t Texan; he was a Rwandan refugee and a master at accents.” Sullenly, she chomped her cupcake. “I hate memoir writing. It’s impossible to tell what’s interesting about my life.”
Ricki laughed. “That’s interesting. That’s your origin story. You get your acting talent from your dad, who, given the opportunity, might have an Oscar by now.”
Tuesday beamed. “You’re smart as hell. Can you write my book? I’m useless. Speaking of useless… where’s Ali? Somewhere realigning his chakras?”
“I was just about to bring him up.” Ricki lowered her voice. “I need advice.”
“Kill him.”
“What?”
“What?”
“Tuesday.”
“Look, I stay ready to tussle. Holler if we need to key cars.”
Given Tuesday had won a three-way club brawl with Selena Gomez and a High School Musical extra that made In Touch Weekly covers in 2008, Ricki believed her.
“I always run from relationships,” continued Ricki. “And I need to rebrand. Should I try to turn this fling into a… thing?”
“I’m all about breaking toxic patterns. But for Ali? What do you really know about him? Do you ever even stay at his place?”
“No. But only because he lives with a throuple.”
Tuesday put her hands in prayer pose, fingertips at her forehead. “Biiitch.”
“I know, I know.”
“Does Ali make you feel adored? Do you feel held, physically, mentally, and astrologically? If not, dump him. Not because it’s your usual pattern, but because you should.”
Ricki chewed her lip, reluctant to admit that she agreed. Just then, they were interrupted by a perky blonde in a maxidress.
“Are you Tuesday Rowe? I used to love you. Why don’t you work anymore?”
In the short time Ricki had known Tuesday, she’d experienced this way too often. It took only one person to spot her before the news spread like wildfire. To maintain her sanity, Tuesday always answered the “where have you been” question with preposterous sarcasm.
“What’ve you been doing since Ready Freddy?” said the woman.
“Pursuing my dream of aquarium design.”
“Legend!” The blonde bopped away.
Ricki handed Tuesday her uneaten fudge cupcake. “Here, you need this.”
“Tuesday Rowe?” yelped another guest. “I’m such a fan! What’re you up to these days?”
“Bathing in the blood of my enemies.”
“Slay, villain,” he said, and breezed past them.
Tuesday slid on her sunnies (at 8:00 p.m., indoors). “Love you, girl, but there’s a complexion-boosting vitamin C mask waiting for me at home.”
“I get it. But first, look at Ali over there by the cake pop stand. Is he my future?”
Tuesday peered in Ali’s direction, frowning. “He looks blank. Like he’s waiting for a soaring violin score to tell him how to feel.”
Ricki grimaced. “Nothing there, huh?”
Tuesday air-kissed her in response and was on her way out when Chaka Khan’s banger “Ain’t Nobody” began thumping through speakers. Gasping, she turned back toward Ricki.
“Funny story—I met Chaka Khan’s keyboardist at the Grammys. He said he got the riff after hearing some dude play it at a piano store in Vegas. But he couldn’t remember his name. When Chaka asked him who it was, he said, ‘Ain’t nobody.’ Ha!” Her eyes sparkled. “Seems dope, actually. To be so influential on art but anonymous? No one projecting shit onto you. No one making up lies, feeling ownership over you, deciding if you’re pure or a whore before you even know. But it’s different for men. The culture crucifies girls.” She sighed. “Fame is a prison.”
Ricki shot her a gentle smile. “Your first chapter starts there.”
As Tuesday exited, Ali headed over to Ricki, slipping his arm around her waist. He smelled of sawdust and patchouli.
Pro: his cologne is masculine and sexy, she thought.
She smiled. “You’re having fun?”
“Indeed! I’m lifted by all these positive energy frequencies.”
Con: he speaks like a silent-retreat leader.
“Everybody here’s good people. In fact, I was just vibing with this Columbia econ major? He dropped some wisdom I’d like to share with you, in the spirit of radical honesty.”
“Oh really? Well…”
“He said your bouquets are too expensive.”
Ricki planted her fists on her hips. How dare he discuss her business with a stranger? And how dare the stranger be right? She was tired of people telling her how to handle her store. Couldn’t she learn a valuable lesson in peace?
“I work with rare, very expensive breeds,” she said defensively. “I realize that I won’t make a profit soon, but I’d like to come out even, at least. To do that, I have to price up.”
Ali squeezed her hand. “Release yourself from the shackles of consumerism, my queen.”
Ricki’s patience was thinning. “But… I literally sell things for a living.”
Just in time, they were joined by Ms. Della, a vision in a cream caftan, oversized red glasses, and a sculptural fascinator. She’d been chatting with her various neighborhood fans. As always, she carried a teacup.
It fascinated Ricki that she went out in the world with an actual cup of tea. Not a travel mug or a to-go tumbler. And it was her good china, as if she were entertaining guests in her parlor. It had the same chaotic confidence of a kid traipsing into first period with no backpack.
“Ms. Della!” Ricki hugged her narrow frame, taking in her scent: Fashion Fair powder, Estée Lauder’s Beautiful, and the Tiger Balm she massaged on her arthritic fingers.
Unconsciously, Ricki straightened her posture. Something in Ms. Della’s presence always made Ricki want to please her. And to delete every ounce of flightiness from her personality. Not only was the woman elegance personified, but she also seemed to operate on a higher level than everyone else.
“Ali, I’ll be right back. I promised Ms. Della we’d grab a doughnut together,” she said, linking arms with the older woman.
She needed a break from Ali.
As they walked, Ms. Della whispered, “They said this was a party. Where are the hats?”
“Fancy hats are a lost art, I fear,” sympathized Ricki.
“Your face looks off. Something ailing you?”
“Just worried about Wilde Things, as usual. I can’t wait for the day I can afford to create the fanciful, luxury arrangements I’m dying to make.”
“No use waiting for an ideal scenario. There’s only now,” she said pointedly. “Close your eyes. Are you satisfied in this moment?”
Ricki did as she was told, allowing the sounds of laughter-infused party chatter to fill her ears. Her shop was in danger. Her rent was suddenly feeling unsustainable. Her future with Ali was bleak…
Who is Garden Gentleman? Will I see him again? Do I want to?
Get that beautiful stranger out of your mind, thought Ricki, clenching her fists. Stop being a pain in your own ass.
Quickly, she refocused her attention on Ms. Della. And lied.
“You know what? I am satisfied, I think.”
“Then you’re doing everything right,” she said definitively. “Oh, there’s Soraya. She’s a featured artist. You should meet her before the unveiling. She’s a card.”
Ms. Della led her to where her friend Soraya was holding court. A third-grade teacher by trade, Soraya self-identified as a Marxist vegan.
“Great to meet you, sis.” Soraya blanketed Ricki in her calm, podcast-perfect voice. “I was just explaining my piece. It’s a photograph of bananas.”
“I’m allergic to bananas,” confessed Ms. Della, sipping her tea.
“But hidden within the photograph I added one painted banana. It resembles the rest, but it’s just a bit… off. I’m exploring the things we do and don’t notice in life. For instance, would you notice if someone didn’t cast a shadow? Or had wings tucked into their coat? Would you see the painted banana if I hadn’t pointed it out?”
Ricki nodded, intrigued. She wondered how much of the world she really took in. Sometimes, she’d get so fixated on one thing—gardening, reading—that she’d forget she was even a person until spoken to. Like, Oh! I exist.
“I created it as a reminder to open my eyes to the world,” continued Soraya. “You never know who or what walks with us.”
An icy chill ran down Ricki’s back, the hairs on her arms standing on end. And then she had the distinct feeling of being watched. Her head swiveled toward the windows, and she surveyed the crowd. Nothing.
Ricki had to pull it together. The encounter with Garden Gentleman had clearly scrambled her brain.
“No doubt I’ll notice the banana,” said Ali, who’d joined the group. “By nature, I’m perceptive to all dimensions of experience.”
“He’s an empath,” explained Ricki, cringing down to her toenails.
“It’s a gift.” Ali linked his fingers with Ricki’s. “God is so intricate.”
“Y’all are together?” Surprised, Soraya looked from Ali to Ricki. “Ali, I’m in your portrait class at the New School. You don’t recognize me?”
“Word? My apologies.” Ali dropped Ricki’s hand. “I didn’t recognize you with braids.”
“But you would’ve noticed the banana?” Ms. Della was sharper than she had any right to be at ninety-six.
Ali had no response, and Soraya filled up the dead air with effusive praise. “Ricki, I was always jealous of Ali’s talent in class. Painting from live subjects is hard.” And then she leaned over and whispered into Ricki’s ear, “FYI, I’m polyamorous, too.”
“But… I’m not polyamorous,” said Ricki. She eyed Ali, who was shifting his weight between each foot.
“Now, what does that word mean, exactly?” asked Ms. Della.
“It’s when you enjoy several relationships at the same time, ma’am,” Soraya said.
Ms. Della cocked her head. “I declare. Well, no sin in being hot in the pants.”
And then, in that blunt way of elders who’ve decided their time would be better spent elsewhere, she squeezed Ricki’s shoulder and went off to find her driver.
Just then, Glenroy St. Jermaine clinked a wineglass with his massive cocktail ring. “Good people! Thanks for coming out to Community Art Night. As an aspiring legendary painter, I’m so inspired by all the artists here tonight. And now, without further ado, I invite y’all to unveil. And then sell your pieces like the rent’s due, y’all. ’Cause it is.” He cackled.
Clearly relieved to exit the polyamory conversation, Ali rushed over to his artwork. The three canvases were propped on a shelf, facing inward. Eyes bright, he turned each one around. And then everyone on his side of the room let out a gasp.
Ricki’s was the loudest.
There was one portrait of her. It was a lovely, uncontroversial nude, soft, pretty, and prim. The other two nudes were not prim, nor did they feature Ricki. Instead, the subject was a Kelly Rowland look-alike with sinuous braids. In one painting, she exposed full boobs and bush. The other was from the perspective of someone extremely close, looking down at her perfect naked body tangled in sheets. These pieces were dripping with sex.
In a rush, guests crowded the wall, taking iPhone pics and jockeying to be the first to buy one. Someone actually elbowed Ricki, trying to get a closer look at the braided bombshell. Both of those paintings sold immediately. No one even noticed Ricki’s portrait.
Abandoning her brilliant banana piece for a moment, Soraya made her way to Ricki. “I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just that Kiana, the model in the portraits… We painted her, live, in class. And they had a vibe. It’s clear Ali started sleeping with her. You deserve the truth.”
“I appreciate that,” said Ricki, and she did. She stormed over to Ali, dragging him by the biceps to a back corner of the bakery. And she snapped.
“I know we weren’t exclusive, but what happened to quote-unquote radical honesty? This is how I find out you’re sleeping with someone else?”
“My queen, she was just my model! We didn’t sleep together.”
“Tell another lie.”
“Okay, I only bedded her a few times. But it was in pursuit of art! Picasso was married and he had a muse. I didn’t want to tell you ’cause I knew you’d trip.”
“Oh my God, not you comparing yourself to Picasso. Who was a raging misogynist, by the way.” Ricki dropped her face into her hands and began mumbling to herself. “Did I really try turning Ali into a real relationship? I need therapy. And I can’t even afford therapy!”
“Wow. Okay. I see you’re mad. I receive it. But I know you find other niggas attractive. Stand in your truth. Don’t be a hippocrip.”
Ricki glared at him. “A hypocrite, you sentient Buddha statue from Urban Outfitters.”
She stormed away, furious at herself. The fact that she’d even considered being serious with Ali was proof that her dating instincts were trash.
Ricki made a decision. It was time to take a man break. Guys had never brought her anything but trouble, but the common denominator was her. She couldn’t be trusted to pick the right ones. She was wasting her own time!
Exasperated, Ricki grabbed her coat and headed for the front door. She was so lost in thought that when she felt a tap on her shoulders, she yelped with surprise.
In front of her was a small woman, barely five feet tall, probably in her late fifties. She was rocking a shag haircut with frosted streaks, a floral tunic, and teal eye shadow. She didn’t look like a Manhattanite. She looked like a cul-de-sac grandma from Scranton.
“Oh!” exclaimed Ricki. “Sorry, you scared me. Do… do I know you?”
“No,” she responded in an assertive voice with a vague Latin European lilt. Portuguese, maybe? Spanish? “I need that painting. That one. The one of you.”
Ricki frowned at the woman pointing at her portrait. Odd. No one had even remarked on the painting, and now this latecomer was demanding it? “Are you sure?”
“I repeat, I need that painting of you. Now.” The woman took Ricki’s right hand and pressed a roll of cash into her palm. “That totals five thousand dollars. Would that be enough?”
Mouth agape, Ricki gawked at the stack with all the subtlety of a Fantasia ballad.
“I… I’m not the painter.” She quickly scanned the crowd for Ali but couldn’t see him. “Also, it’s not worth this much! The sale price is one hundred fifty dollars.”
“Price is no object.”
“Well… I mean, I don’t understand, but sure? I’ll make sure the painter gets the cash. But wait, why do you want that one? What’s the urgency?”
“I am not at liberty to say.” The woman stared into Ricki’s face for a beat too long, and something simmered beneath her expression. “You are as lovely as I thought you would be.” The woman spoke quickly, shaking her head. “Trouble.”
What the hell was she talking about? And why was she being so cryptic? The woman looked like she was in a hurry to leave. “Who are you?”
“I am unimportant,” huffed the lady. “In fact, you will forget me in a month or so. The painting is for my boss. As his assistant, I am simply following orders. May I?”
The woman strode past Ricki and hoisted the canvas off the shelf.
“Wait, I really need to know who you are!” insisted Ricki, following her.
“My boss is a philanthropist who enjoys supporting young artists. No more, no less. As I said, you will forget me in a month.”
She speaks so formally, thought Ricki. No contractions. “I am” instead of “I’m.” “You will” instead of “you’ll.” Who talks like that?
“Can you give me their contact info? IG handle? Anything? Just to know who the artist should thank, at least.”
The woman was heading for the door, the rubber soles of her Uggs squeaking on the floor. “Apologies, but no.”
“Wait!” called Ricki as the woman left the shop and hurried away. “Stop!”
It was a freezing February night, and the first errant flakes of a snowstorm were starting to fall. The woman was halfway down the block by the time Ricki reached her.
“Just give me a number! Anything!” she said. “Please!”
Annoyed, the woman spun around and made an impatient sound. She chewed her fingernails, paced, and looked extremely conflicted. Ricki gawked, trying to rationalize all the unsettling, surreal encounters happening to her. First Garden Gentleman, and now her?
“Damn it,” the woman muttered. She paused and then looked deflated, as if giving in. “212-555-5787. Happy now?” And then, canvas in tow, she rushed down the street and around the corner, lost to the night.
Ricki repeated 212-555-5787, 212-555-5787, 212-555-5787, 212-555-5787 over and over until she found her phone in her purse. She added it to her contacts under the name Mysterious Benefactor.