Red Flag by Dafna Steinberg

My flag boy and your flag boy were sit-tin' by the fire. 

My flag boy told your flag boy:

 "I'm gon-na set your flag on fire.

- Dixie Cups “Iko Iko”

I

For our first meeting, I arrive at the diner more or less on time. He is already there, which surprises me.

He is not my type at all.  

We met on a dating app. In one of his profile pictures he was drunk and shirtless. I have very little faith that this will go anywhere. 

He is conventionally attractive, with sandy blonde hair and a chiseled jaw. His name is Ted or Keith or Jake but he might as well be named after a Ken doll. He is wearing a peach colored polo shirt and pressed khakis. He looks up from the menu and sees me walking towards him. He smiles like a car salesman.  I smile back forcefully and fiddle with my phone so I can check the time before putting it in my purse. I figure we will be done in an hour.  

“Well, hello there!” he says a little too energetically. In his eyes, I see gears turning. 

I debate if I should order alcohol or not. 

II

Revealing our red flags becomes a game. 

He tells me stories of his recent travels to South America. He says he doesn’t have a job currently because he left his last one to travel. 

“Well that’s a red flag,” I say, louder than I probably should. In his eyes, I see a flash of shock and perhaps hurt. Maybe this will take less than an hour.  

He melts into amusement. 

“Are you counting red flags?”

“Are you not?” I maintain eye contact as I take a sip of water. 

He chuckles and looks as if he is about to say something when a server comes over to take our orders.

III

“So I was watching a documentary about a serial killer this week.” 

“Red flag,” I say, even though I love documentaries about serial killers.

He laughs and continues.  “It was about this guy called the Toy Box Killer. He lived in New Mexico and murdered women in a sound proof trailer. Before he killed them, he raped and tortured them.” 

In his eyes, I see a spark of mischief. He is trying to figure out what boundaries I have set. 

He has shown his hand. I decide to raise him. 

Leaning to him across the small table, I say in a low voice “Yeah…his name was David Parker Ray and he lived in Elephant Butte, New Mexico. It’s not far from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.” 

I can’t tell if he is surprised or disappointed.

“Red flag,” he says. The straight line of his mouth curls into a smile. “How do you know that?”

“I lived in Truth or Consequences for a six weeks while doing an artist residency. I learned a lot about the Toy Box Killer when I lived there.”

As I say this, I make sure to raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes. 

“Double red flag,” he says, bending even closer to me. 

IV

He tells me about his last job.

“Yeah, when I worked at the car dealersh-“ 

He stops himself midsentence. His looks at me, horrified.

“RED FLAG,” he says. 

I burst out laughing. Oh my God. He IS a car salesman. And without me saying anything, he already knows how I feel about it. I realize that maybe I was wrong about him. 

He pays the check and offers me a ride home. Even though I live walking distance, I accept and ask him if he is going to murder me.

V

He parks in front of my building. In his car, neither of us moves. I notice a drop of water hit the windshield and the skies open like a Biblical story. People run underneath awnings of local businesses. The more prepared thrust umbrellas in the air. I turn back and he is watching me. In his eyes, I see a full moon. Did he just lick his lips?

“My cheeks hurt from laughing so much,” he finally says. 

“Mine too.” 

He uses this as an invitation to touch my face. His hand feels soft against my skin. I close my eyes and feel his fingers trace down until they wrap around my throat. 

I smile. He squeezes.  

Later, he will tell me, “I don’t usually do that, but your body called for it somehow.”

VI

Before our second meeting, I want to keep the tension. I send him a text describing the outfit I have planned. His response is exactly what I hope. 

Awww lord help me.

Which Lord? Yours or mine?

Or Satan?

Definitely Satan. I think you’ll like a little evil.

Evil, no…but there may be an 

offering to a goddess.

Okay…as long as I don’t have to be good.

No, you don’t. As long as you 

don’t mind being the offering. 

But what kind of sacrifice would you 

be looking for?

I’m not looking for a sacrifice. 

I’m looking for an offering. 

There’s a difference. 

You’ll have to teach me.

VII

We meet outside in the rain. We both have umbrellas but he offers me his arm so I can walk underneath his. He compliments my outfit. It is the one I had described to him earlier. In his eyes, I see the fishnets I am wearing being ripped apart.

I take him to my favorite bar, a speakeasy upstairs from a dry cleaner. The doorman says hello to me and quickly gives him the up and down. The doorman looks back to me and gives me a quizzical face. 

“It’s just the two of us,” I tell the doorman with a wink. 

At the bar, I receive the same look from the bartender who makes small talk with us.

“Witch’s Brew?” the bartender asks me. I nod and the bartender leaves to make my drink. 

“They know you here, huh?” he asks watching the bartender pour champagne into a coupe glass. 

“Yes,” I say. I don’t mention that they normally see me alone. 

VIII

The room is molded Jello and we are watching it jiggle from the inside.  I down my third (or is it fourth?) Witch’s Brew. It is a simple concoction of champagne and crème de violette, a recipe I made up one drunken night.  The drink name comes from its color. In the warm tungsten glow of the bar, it looks like dark jade. When you shine a white light into it, it becomes a vibrant amethyst. It tastes like a love potion. 

He orders me another one, before nuzzling his lips into the curve of my neck. His hand skims under the bottom of my skirt and creeps to the inside of my thigh. 

IX

He sees the painting hanging above my bed. It is of a goddess holding a viper. He looks at it for a long time, examining the details of her hands and the scales of the serpent. Her eyes stare back at him, unblinking. For a moment, I wonder if they are communicating. 

“That is the goddess who needs an offering,” I say. 

What transpires next is a sequence: He reaches for the light switch. He grabs a fistful of my hair, like Perseus holding Medusa’s head. He throws me on the mattress with such force I fear the slats beneath will break. His body weighs me down like rocks in my pocket. I am drowning. 

Overwhelmed, I try to pull away but he pins my arms above me. He is breathing hard. The room spins. I wonder if any of this is real. There is a mounting pressure inside me that builds and builds, but doesn’t peak. It’s as if my body knows that he is ruining me. 

In his eyes, I see the fire with which he wants to burn me alive.

X

In my kitchen, I cut an apple and offer him a slice. With a smile, he says “You really are a witch.” I cannot tell if he is joking. 

He wraps his lips around the apple piece in my fingers and slowly bites down, crunching its crisp between his teeth. As he chews, his hands caress my bare back, pulling me close to him. He kisses me and I taste honey.  Transfixed, I drink him in. 

He is not my type at all. The best ones never are. 

Dafna Steinberg is an interdisciplinary artist, who makes work around the themes of feminism, identity, memory and grief. While her art practice is mostly in the visual, she has recently found a new facet of her voice through writing. Other writing pieces of hers have been published in Push Up Daisies! Magazine. Originally from Washington, DC, Steinberg currently resides in Philadelphia, PA with her cat, Otis. She can be found on Instagram @dafnasteinbergart