Patron Saint
by Manoela Torres
Back then, it was dumplings or Häagen-Dazs, never both. A supermarket splurge felt like a betrayal of our broke-ass ethos. We’d hop the subway turnstile to save $2.75 and smuggle tiny, grim bottles of liquor into clubs. The $30 cocktail was the night's budget. Then I met him and everything changed.
It was one of those calculated accidents, both of us playing parts we’d polished. He had a dog on a leash, a scrappy mutt pup, the kind that becomes trendy every five years. I had nice tits and a tight tank top. I stopped to pet the dog, its fur greasy under my red nails, and his number slid into my phone like it belonged there. 347: I always found it fancy when someone’s number started with digits that suggested they belonged to the city.
Later, over one of the many dinners I didn’t pay for, I learned he wasn’t born here, but he’d lingered long enough to collect scars. He said watching 9/11 from his office’s top floor was a spectacle of smoke and helplessness. I gulped my wine. I guess that’s what New York does for you: it grinds tragedy into background noise because it’s everywhere—a squirrel’s corpse in the park, homeless men missing chunks of flesh, girls like me dating men like him.
The night Elliot told me he’d never been married and had no kids, I agreed to dinner. Like that was some noble line I’d drawn to keep my dignity from rotting. I was an art student, Parsons, hemorrhaging cash for a BFA, trying to scratch out a name in a city that ate dreamers raw. His Tribeca penthouse stared down the skyline, that jagged profile which, from his rooftop, felt close enough to steal—a string of fairy lights I could twist and trace with my fingers.
He introduced me to different kinds of wine, taught me how some grapes needed cool nights and limestone soil to tighten their skins. I’d sip, my mouth stained purple, pretending I gave a shit about phenolic compounds when I was just glad it didn’t taste like the warm Moscato my roommates and I would chug in our dorms. He taught me finance, too, using art and fashion metaphors to spin the market into something I could hold. It’s like taking your vintage jacket to a high-end consignment shop, he’d say. They find the right buyer, negotiate the best price, and take a cut for making the deal happen.
Elliot never met my friends. He had no interest, I had too much shame. Not because of his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s under sagging lids, or how he’d smirk, This sweater’s older than you. But because when I was with him I became someone else. I extinguished all my fire and turned into a pile of glistening ash, something he could hold in the palm of his hands.
The night of my senior art show, he took me to some chandelier-drenched restaurant, then told me he had a surprise waiting for me back at his place. I arrived and found a home studio: shelves of sable brushes, oils in jewel-toned tubes, the canvas stretcher I used to manifest for my forties. That night, I let him fuck my ass.
After college, I couldn’t find a job, so we both agreed I’d move in with him and take his credit card. I thought it romantic, like the old times—he’s Lorenzo de’ Medici and I’m Michelangelo. After all, is there anything better than being paid for your art?
Private Inferno
by Manoela Torres
If you focus on the golden arches surrounding the marble desk, the way “Bodylove” is written in cursive font on the tiny water bottle tags, or the vanilla-rose scent leaking from the baby pink walls, you can almost forget that for the next forty minutes, while trapped in a metal machine that’s more like a medieval torture device than a workout tool, a skeletal blonde woman will scream at you with a smile plastered on her face. I fell prey to the allure of the Bodylove Pilates studio—the little white towels with embroidered hems, the girlish pink everywhere, all designed to conceal the pain beneath the surface. But today, the reason I’m here is sharp and painful and simple: to feel the burn, to drown out the memory of his fists, his voice, the way he swore he’d never do it again.
Just a year ago, I used to come inside this same bathroom and get lost looking at myself in the mirrored walls. Sometimes, when no one was around, I’d walk around naked and admire my post-workout form. That was three months before his fist first landed. Now, I lock myself inside a cubicle, put on my sports bra and yoga pants, and start patting the bruises and scratches on my belly with concealer. They look like tiny black holes where his rage seeps through, marking me as his. But when the makeup is on, everything becomes easier. I feel like an actor in a play, my body lent to someone else who can fit in with the rainbow of color-coded Lululemon girls and bony middle-aged women, all pretending life is perfect.
In each Pilates reformer machine is a small eucalyptus-scented towel with a quote written on them. Mine (My body, My temple) stares back at me like some cruel joke.
Bubblegum pop from the 90s blasts as the instructor strides in—a strawberry blonde, forty years old, with sun-damaged skin and a fake spray tan. Bethany—I've been coming long enough to know her name. She moves with the sharp grace of someone who’s forged pain into a career. I’ve seen her eyes drift during breaks, her performance faltering when she thinks no one’s watching.
“Okay girls! Let's get those bodies moving!” She rallies with practiced enthusiasm, her voice carrying the artificial brightness that pays her bills.
I put on double the weight I’m used to and block it all out: the smell of clean sweat and perfume swallowing the room, the pink and purple disco lights, Britney Spears’ voice. I focus on my muscles, how they’re starting to burn. His shadow looms in the dark, but I squint my eyes and focus on the searing pulse in my thighs, each fiber coiling tight, grinding against the carriage’s resistance as if carving my own defiance into bone.
Suddenly, I’m nothing. I’m nowhere, some place no one can penetrate. My body has become a bonfire. Everywhere in flames. I’m melting. Everything is black, destroyed, there’s nothing he can take from me now. I relish feeling every inch of the burn, the numbing, the unbecoming. Just ash.
The machine gives a final metallic protest as I push against it one last time. My muscles scream, each fiber raw and ragged, tendons taut like frayed ropes, bones grinding under the weight of my own boldness. For these few moments, the heat belongs to me alone—a conflagration of my choosing, burning away everything he tried to claim.
In this private inferno of my own, I strike the matches.
About the Author
Manoela Torres is a Brazilian writer and translator who graduated from Barnard College with a degree in English and Creative Writing. She dedicates her time to writing editorials, fiction, and poetry. She is currently pursuing an MFA in fiction at The New School. You can follow her on Instagram – @ manoelalatorres.
