Rachel Glaser - Paulina & Fran

Fran sublet her apartment to a grad student for the summer, and moved her things into Julian’s. They spent every night together in an easy love. Fran didn’t tire of watching him. His long legs, his short hair. She studied him. He wasn’t a Greek god or oracle, or whatever Marvin was, but he was real, and smart, and completely hers. Every story he told her, she saved it in her mind as if she were going to write his biography, or tell it to their kids.

They tried to cook things for each other. They did their laundry in the same machines. They got so good at getting each other off that they could do it blindfolded or standing up, or quickly in an alley, or awkwardly on a big rock near the canal.

They neglected their art. They never worked. It was too hot on the weekends. They talked a lot about work. They imagined doing work with such concentration, as if work was done only in the studio of the mind. They lay in Julian’s humid apartment, naked and dreaming.

“It won’t be easy to get the money for my first film, but it will happen,” Julian told Fran. “I’ll be patient and stick with it. I’ll do some shorts and get them into festivals. I won’t use video. I’ll intern for the masters.”

Fran turned onto her back. The fan oscillated toward them and away from them, blessing them and scorning them. “I’m going to get a nice studio with big windows. But first I might have to paint in my room or wherever I can. I’ll get an apartment with a porch.”

“Good. You should,” he said.

“This year I’m going to be super focused and do really good work for my show.” She could see herself doing work. She pictured herself blowing a stray curl out of her face, painting in nice dresses and ruining the dresses and not caring. She pictured the paintings she wanted to make and the things people would say about them. And how she would look next to the paintings, having made them. Carrying them around. She imagined living in Brooklyn or Portland with Julian, being grown-ups and hosting dinner parties and raising a puppy together. She imagined a wedding where everyone acted crazy and there were no adults. She imagined raising children in the woods, living off the grid, whatever that meant. Having a secret woods mansion. But running it off green energy.

“I’m never going to use violence for violence’s sake or sex for sex’s sake, but there is going to be sex and violence in these movies.” Julian got up and went to the sink to get water. When he got back into bed, Fran wrapped herself around him.

“What if we moved to Canada after we graduate?” she said. “Wouldn’t that be cool?” There were probably tons of trees in Canada. It was always so green on the map.

“I guess,” he said. “Who knows.”

Fran pouted. She went to the bathroom to look at her hair and it looked good. Her breasts were swollen because she was expecting her period, and they also looked good. She was interesting. People told her she looked like she was in a band. There was no reason he shouldn’t want to live with her, and marry her and everything.

They saw each other so much that summer that the boredom became normal. They talked through the boredom. They criticized each other in their minds, and then a joke broke through the glass or a kiss did the unraveling work of a kiss. Sometimes they knew there was something better out there, sometimes they had the imagination to picture it, but they were lazy and liked each other. Finally they were part of a pair — someone would listen to whatever they said.

“Sampson is recommending me for this big Whitney residency award thing. All I need to do is fill out this application.”

“Fill it out!” Julian nuzzled into her neck. Fran knew he thought she was unmotivated. He’d said so a few times. The application wasn’t that complicated, but there were essay questions. No one had taught her how to write essays. It stressed her out. She felt absently for his dick and his balls. She ran her hand softly against his pubic hair, then on his thin thighs and bony knees.

“You know,” he said, “I know something about you that I never told you.”

“What?” she asked. She wanted to ask him to do the dishes. He hadn’t done a dish in so long.

“I know about Blood Axe.”

Fran laughed. It didn’t make any sense. “What about Blood Axe?” she asked.

Julian danced his fingers up and down her back. “Everything about it,” he said slyly. “The cabin, and Paulina, and the zebra-skin rug. How you lost your virginity to him and made Paulina keep it a secret.” Fran wanted to die laughing. She pressed her face into his stomach. “Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s super sexy. It was my first fantasy of you.” Fran was incredulous. “I mean, I know his real name wasn’t really Blood Axe. Blood Axe is some ancient Norwegian warrior. I looked it up. But that’s what she called him, so that’s how I thought of him.”

Fran smiled in disbelief.

Julian elbowed her. “When were you going to tell me? I’ve been waiting for you to tell me,” he said.

“But you’ve already heard the whole story,” said Fran.

“I want to hear you tell it,” he said. “Look how hard it gets me,” he said.

She played with his erection, remembering her first time having sex in high school, and then called back the Blood Axe fantasy. All she could see were abs and hair. He’d had powers, too — she remembered. He’d been a time traveler, or something.

“It was a good way to lose it,” she said. “He was very kind. The whole thing was dreamy.”

“Dreamy like how?” he asked. “Were you drunk?”

“No, but I was seeing everything in this heightened way. When I met him, I could have just, like, taken a picture of him and moved on, but I could tell there was something mysterious and wonderful about him, so I lingered.” She looked at him, gauging whether he bought the whole thing, and was charmed that he did. He kissed her and she kissed back.

“And after you, he had sex with Paulina?” he asked.

She nodded. “And after Paulina, Milo.”

“No!” he said. She laughed.

“Yeah. Paulina didn’t tell you that? Milo had never even kissed someone before. It really changed his work when he got back. He switched to sculpture.” Julian shifted his weight. His eyes were filled with doubt. He started to object but Fran interrupted.

“She’s something, right?”

“Who?” Julian asked.

“Paulina. She’s like Cleopatra, but more squat.”

“She’s more like Humphrey Bogart.”

“No!” Fran shook her head.

“I mean her voice is,” said Julian.

“Yeah, her voice.”

Senior year started with no great event. After Paulina’s summer in New York, the college town seemed even more pitiful. Sadie and Allison took pictures of it to remember, but Paulina wanted to watch it shrink in the rearview mirror of a vehicle speeding away. She started hanging out in the dilapidated mill buildings downtown, where art dudes squeezed puff paint on flawed iron-casting projects and built couches and lived their dreams out in high ceilings and local fame, thrashing on drum sets, blowing their amps, going by names like Dog Claw and Mystic. In these warehouses, there was often a Lego wall, a makeshift bathroom, and a desire for the world to end.

Mystic had graduated years before, but he stayed in town, playing noise shows and dating girls from the school. Paulina wasn’t very attached to him, but she needed someone’s dumb eyes on her when she lay in bed. Even in New York she’d thought daily about Julian and Fran. Mystic’s loft bed had a ladder and a slide, and like other girls before her, Paulina usually took the slide. The bathroom had an exposed light bulb and a door with no lock. Instead of a toilet seat, there was a piece of wood with a hole cut in it. Beyond that was a series of rooms crammed with rotting packing materials.