“A society that has moralised envy cannot tell the living artist from the narcissist.”
Eris curses at the windows in Albion. Not good for selfies. The way the light falls, not the most flattering for someone in her thirties. She waltzes from window to window phone in hand trying to get the best shot. She usually does get a few good shots in. They go straight to her social media. It’s the industry of the modern artist. She creates these video reels with witty captions, the follower base gets to live vicariously, everyone happy. Daniel is sat legs folded on the white sofa, lazily scrolling through Facebook at the end of the day. Eris’ happy video post with light washing behind her is lovely, but it feels like a personal affront somehow. Her shine from afar once drew him in, but now he resents feeling small in close-up.
He squints: his dim silhouette just visible in the background as she swirls. So he decides to object, in typical mellifluous tone. Sweet choice of words, even sweeter meek voice—almost singing. Easy to drown harsh intent with a voice like that.
—Think of poor Julianah. At least make it friends only. His pretty face pleads, looking up to her.
It’s like something grabs her unannounced. Her smile turns to lemon sour.
—What, why?? I am in my home, in the one spot with good light. A single video frame happened to have a faint suggestion of another person in it, only visible if you freeze-frame. I’ve a public facing persona, this is part of my career. My career is very image focused and I'm stellar at it.
Daniel is taken aback. He takes seconds to think. He usually does.
—My God. It wouldn't hurt you to be more modest. You'd make less enemies that way.
As soon as he says it, he understands what he’s done; he triggered one of her buttons, so he prepares for storm incoming with secret glee.
—Modest?? She snaps. Which enemies?! Your “modesty” is just shorthand for small. What has modesty ever brought you?? Does modesty make the world spin? Invent electricity? Go to space, put satellites in the sky? Your concept of “modesty” is a code word for failure.
Why do you want me to be modest? Not know where I stand? Act humble and fake? I look good. I speak well. Sorry these things seem to upset you. So I flaunt them. It actually pays my bills. Your missy, if she doesn't like it, she has two options: improve her own life and stop blaming others for her failure or she can, you know, stop parking her neuroses on my social media. I definitely didn't invite her on it.
—She's not a failure, Daniel mutters through gritted teeth.
—Oh, really? Does she have an Oscar in home-making? Daniel already fuming through his ears. Pressure cooker. License for Eris to continue. Point she needs to make supersedes his delicate sensibilities in importance, and she’s going all in. To teach him a lesson he needs to know, that life hasn’t shown him yet.
She takes off her pearls, suddenly feeling their weight. She takes off her shoes, suddenly craving comfort. Circles him like a headmistress; or a lioness. While his body crouches even smaller in a perfect golden ratioed snail shape into the cushions. Once more hiding under his hair.
—I actually have a career and still I'm a better home-maker than her. She just uses her failure and lack of aim to glorify doing fuck all. Things we all do as part of life. Maintenance.
Time to wake up, cupcake. You want success, you have to confront reality. I’m fighting wars here, and sorry, but part of my warfare is looking good for the camera. Live with it. Or not.
But what you’re really doing, is you’re just trying to rebrand envy as ethics. This isn’t about real modesty. It’s about you and your partner being uncomfortable that I exist on the internet. That is your problem to sort between yourselves.
The tense air becomes lead. She thinks she’s triumphed, made her point. Who can not be seduced by such life-affirming logic? But she looks at him off the corner of her eye, and sees him clenching thick jaws in a tiresome repression of painful reality.
—You're really mean, you know that. Finally, he speaks. His voice guttural, deep. So unlike him.
I think we're happy here and she's alone there, no point gloating, shoving our happiness in her face. Eris quickly cuts off:
—And if I was going to post a portrait of us two tongue kissing, I'd agree with you. But this is footage of me. No one looks at faint blot in the background and says: “aha, she’s flaunting her new catch!”. My followers are used to my content way before I learned there was a Julianah on Planet Earth. If she can't cope with that she can't cope with life. And that's not my problem. Daniel blinks. Thinks. Purses lips. Nails deep into his fists.
But not much of a rational retort to that. When she’s right, she’s right. He hates it, but what can he do. How to escape. So he resorts to what he does best. Flicks his hair, jumps to his feet, grabs the door and slams it.
—Bye. I won't even dignify you with an answer, when you're like this!
Ten minutes later he scrolls through Facebook from his bedroom. Stares at her post. Tilts his head. “Oh, well, maybe”. He goes back to tens, hundreds of posts back to make a comparison. The lady of his dreams smiling, or pensive, in all of them—the same way; different settings. Zooms in to see himself, a blob in the background. Gritting resumes—he’s so much more than a blob! But she looks radiant... Happy. Like she always does. You can fault her for being image focused, he thinks. But she’s always like that. He used to like that in her, now he's insecure.
Unless she's using next level subliminal messaging, there is no outright offense. No daggers aimed at any particular rival wasting away in a Johnnyville living room.
He walks sheepishly to the living room where Eris on the same page interacting merrily with friends and followers. She likes the excitement. At least for a bit.
Daniel advances to the foot of the white sofa. Looks at her, eye behind blond curls, lips bitten to the blood. A tear on his cheek. Doesn't even know why, for whom. He's just confused, he wants some kind of release, anything. For lack of better ideas, he curls at the feet of his tormentor, one he resents, but cannot help but feel beckoned by the steel logic of. At her feet, he hugs her knees. It hurts him, she hurt him, her—his protégé, and it, through a feedback loop, comes back to hurt him once more that he adores the giver of pain. Febrile thoughts and impotent raging fists can't work this out. So he resolves to park his exhausted inner conflicts at her feet, massaging them. Meekly. Hoping she looks down. Heart racing. And she does. Arched eyebrow, launching a look like a school Mam.
—You chill yet?
—What? He murmurs.
—You calmed down? He's ashamed. “Yes”. Looks down at the floor. She grabs his chin. Won't let him down easy. Not her style. Before he can react she flashes the camera before him, to immortalize the moment of defeat on his face. Laughs in a satanic tone. Cascades of sardonic laughter fill the room. How could he possibly resist them?
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