A Glimpse of Color
Jonah
Pushing my hands through my dark brown hair I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My light eyes are red and glassy, I didn’t get much sleep. The years are starting to show. I’m not old but my soul is. The weight of the last year has set in on me. Sometimes I don’t even recognize the tired, depleted person looking back at me.
But I soldier on. After brushing my teeth I put a bit of lotion in my hands and try to rub it into the wrinkles forming next to my eyes. This is thirty.
Call it a blessing or a curse, but my beard never fully grew in. With my pasty white skin and lack of sleep, I’ve got the pallor of a ghost. I clean up the stray hairs on my chin and smack on some aftershave to bring some color to my cheeks.
After putting on some clothes I step into my lift and make my way down to the street. I love my place which makes it all the harder to leave it. I’m safe in here. Once I step out onto that street, who knows what could happen?
The dappled sun filtering through the trees is calming, a direct contrast to the war waging inside me. Lately, I feel I’m in a constant state of conflict. I don’t want to paint because nothing feels pretty anymore. Nothing has color the way it used to. But at the same time, painting was such a huge part of my life, that I’m left feeling empty without it.
Today is just another typical day in my life. My therapist, Dr. Platt, is going to sit down with me and ask me all the same questions he asks me every week. I don’t have much news to report. It feels repetitive at best.
With his shriveled face and coke bottle glasses, he looks at me like he understands but there is no way that he could. How could anyone understand when I don’t even understand myself?
Don’t get me wrong. I like the guy enough and I do believe that therapy can help. I’ve seen it work first-hand. It’s just frustrating when I want to feel better, when I’m doing everything I can to feel better, but I still don’t feel better.
Walking into Dr. Platt’s office, the scent of lavender oil filled my nose. I think it’s supposed to be relaxing, but every time I smell it, I’m on edge. That scent means it’s time to do the work and have the talks I don’t want to have.
That’s just the first hurdle. Once I push past the unease, I’m greeted by Janet, the secretary. She’s a petite thing, with long brown hair and a bright smile that’s a bit too wide. She’s always been friendly, but today she’s practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
“Hi, Jonah! You look amazing today!” she sings, her eyes sparkling with a flirtatious glint. “I love that sweater on you!”
I try to smile politely, but I can feel my discomfort growing. Janet’s always been a bit too touchy-feely for my taste, and today she’s being especially… exuberant. She’s a nice enough girl, but it’s hardly professional to behave the way she does. When people come in here, I doubt they’re in the mood for flirtation.
If I’m honest, there is only one woman I’ve thought about touching or getting close to. The problem is, I don’t even know her name.
“Thanks, Janet.” I try to edge past her to get to Dr. Platt’s office.
But Janet’s not having it. She reaches out to touch my arm, her fingers lingering on my sleeve. “So, how’s it going? You know, I’ve been thinking about you all week.”
I feel a surge of annoyance, but I try to stay calm. “I’m doing okay. Just trying to get through the week.”
Janet’s face falls, but only for a moment. Then she’s beaming at me again. “Well, if you ever need to talk or anything, I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
How should I respond to that? I feel so awkward now. We hardly know each other. Just because she works here doesn’t mean I feel comfortable opening up.
I nod, trying to extricate myself from the conversation. “Yeah, thanks, Janet. I appreciate it.”
I should be flattered, I guess. But I know the truth. I was fit at one point in time, but now the idea of doing anything physical just sounds exhausting. I’m healthy enough, but the definition of my muscles has faded. I hate to sound like a broken record, but I’m blaming that on being thirty, too.
Thankfully, before I have to reply, Dr. Platt steps into the reception room and waves me over into his office. I can feel Janet’s eyes on me, watching me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. I’m not sure what’s going on with her, but I’m starting to feel like she’s got a bit of a crush on me. And that’s the last thing I need right now.
When the door shuts behind me I breathe a sigh of relief. The office looks like a professor’s library, wrapped in dark wood fixtures and shelves of books. The lavender scent is softer in here, as I sit down in the creaky armchair I’m already a bit more relaxed. Even bearing my soul to Dr. Platt is more fun than avoiding Janet’s advances.
“Hi Jonah, it’s nice to see you again,” Dr. Platt adjusts his glasses. “How was your week?”
“Typical. I still feel listless and uninspired,” a sigh escapes me. “I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning but I’m here so let’s count that as progress.”
“How did your homework from last week go?”
He told me I had to let go of my mother’s things. Her things aren’t her even if I feel attached to them. “I got through two boxes of photos. I listened to what you said and threw away anything I didn’t recognize.”
“That’s wonderful.” Dr. Platt smiles like a proud parent. “How do you feel about that?”
“It’s nice to make some room and let go of things,” I admit because it’s true. “But when I lay in bed it still feels like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.”
“Are you eating OK?”
“No more or less than usual, that seems to be a problem of the past.” At least that part is true. I’ve been able to go back to eating regular meals.
“Are you getting out of the house and engaging in your normal activities and hobbies?”
“I made myself go to the coffee shop up the street last Monday and now it is the highlight of my day,” I tell him with a grin. It feels nice to be making some progress but it’s not enough. “I’m still having issues picking up a paintbrush, so no to the hobbies.”
If I’m honest this is what I’m most frustrated about, I just want to be able to work again.
“Let’s talk about the coffee shop,” Dr. Platt grins as he flips a page in his notebook. “What do you like about it?”
“There are people there. I found a good table where I can just sit and people-watch. It’s not too loud, nothing there reminds me of my mother. It’s very basic inside.”
I hesitate but it just bursts out of me, “There is a girl.” Dammit, I’m not sure I was ready to talk about this. The whole thing makes me feel a little creepy… but maybe Dr. Platt can help.
“A girl?” His eyebrows raise. It seems like his interest is piqued.
“She’s a regular, I have seen her every time I’ve been there, she’s fascinating,” I try to explain without sounding like a stalker.
“What about her is fascinating?”
“I haven’t even talked to her but she is special. She wears these incredible outfits with so many colors and her hair is always different. Everyone smiles when they see her.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you smile.” His light eyes gleam, showing his approval.
“I didn’t even know I was doing it,” I admit.
He leans forward, “Why haven’t you talked to her?”
“I can’t.” Now I feel on the spot, my stomach is in knots.
“What makes you feel that way?”
I should have known he’d challenge me. I don’t have a good answer. “Why would the light of the entire coffee shop want to talk to a dark rain cloud like me?” I realize what I sound like but it’s too late to change it.
“You haven’t always felt that way,” his expression softens. “Remember all of your successful art shows, the interviews, and the social scene?”
“I do remember but I’m not that person anymore.” I resist.
“You can be if that’s what you want,” his smile is encouraging. “What would your mother say about this situation?”
“She would tell me I was being silly, that any girl would be lucky to talk to me…” Mom was always good for that, she instilled a pretty hefty dose of confidence in me but it seems like it left with her. “There was a time I believed her but now I feel so alone.”
“I understand why you might feel that way but I am inclined to ask you, if you continue this way of thinking, won’t you always be alone?”
I hate when he gets to the heart of the matter. “I guess,” comes out in a huff.
“Jonah, I know your mother was important to you,” his smile is more empathetic now. “Losing her brought up a lot of past trauma for you. Is there anything specific bothering you lately?”
“I’m angry that I’m even in this situation,” I shake my head while looking at my brown wingtips. “I was lucky to have my mother. I wouldn’t have traded her for the world. But if my biological mother never discarded me in the first place, I wonder where I would be.”
“You can’t play what-if games, you’ll drive yourself into madness.” He rubs his gray stubbled chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I have an idea for your homework this week.”
Hearing that, my stomach rolls. Sometimes the homework is simple but most times it truly tests me.
As if he senses my unease he smiles softly, “I know you’re not ready to talk to the girl at the coffee shop. But you described her as the light of the coffee shop, colorful and different. What if you tried to paint something inspired by her?”
That’s not as bad as it could have been, but if it was as simple as picking up the brush and painting, I think I would have done it by now. “I can try but I don’t know if I’m ready.”
He pushes his glasses up on his nose with a grin, “Just try, and bring it with you next week.”
“I will do my best.”
“Thank you, Jonah, see you then.”
After saying our goodbyes I ventured back past Janet’s desk to the street and started to walk to the coffee shop. Now I have this stupid homework hanging over me for the rest of the week. As if I wasn’t putting enough pressure on myself to paint already.
I don’t know why I let my agent talk me into doing this.
Ever since my mom passed away I haven’t been able to focus on my work. I have savings, it’s not a huge deal if I don’t paint right now. But my agent isn’t letting up. He wants me to get back into the studio as soon as possible, and suggested therapy was the most direct route.
This homework is going to be tough but I wasn’t lying. I am fascinated with the girl in the coffee shop. Maybe I could paint something about her. I don’t know, but now I have to try.
It only takes five minutes to walk down the cobblestone street to the coffee shop that has become my new hang-out. I’m early today but hopefully, I’ll still be able to spot the girl with the butterflies in her hair. She doesn’t always have butterflies but she might as well. She looks like a butterfly, she’s perfect to me.
Painting her is one thing but I’m stupid to hope for more. I’m broken and besides that, there is no way she is walking around in the world unattached.
When I get to the coffee shop I order my usual drink and take up residence at my regular table. The quiet sounds of silverware clanking against plates and coffee machines whirring usually create a sense of calm in me. But today I’m particularly on edge. Even the delicious aroma of the beans roasting is doing little to ease my anxiety. Every minute that passes my gut pinches tighter. Watch today be the day she doesn’t come.
I check my watch nervously until I see her walk in. She’s wearing a dark blue dress with silvery butterfly wings across the chest, and her hair is short today, tipped in blue. Her silver shoes sparkle when she walks.
She looks so friendly; she hasn’t stopped smiling since she walked in. I could talk to her, totally. Can I handle rejection right now? No. Hiding in plain sight is easier, especially with everything I’m dealing with.
