Fuxia is born
It wasn't a dark and stormy night, but a bit of a misty and foggy one. Frances Eloise Pagnotta had been saving up for this night, saving up her nickles and dimes in order to get the right outfit (a simple dress, but brown suited her), her hair right (she did it at home, pin curls but they were cute), and she had been saving up all her love as the old song says. She had even put a flower in her hair, which reminded her of Camilla Cabello for some reason (people used to say she had a resemblance to the star). It was a particular, horn-shaped bloom she had found in her front yard, which though unkempt enough had some nice wildflowers. It was a radiant, electric shade of fuchsia, which had somehow kept Frances alive those bland days, gave her some enthusiasm for life.
Dick, Dick, Dick ....Dick Diamond was all she could think about, even though in this feminist age of agressive, economically efficient women who juggled children and jobs and enlightenment she was becoming something of an old-fashioned girl (although at 32 she couldn't be technically called one). He had broad shoulders, he was typically handsome in a cartoon character sort of way (nice jawline, well-fitting jackets). He had black hair with just a little bit of grey (which she found irresistable). But he was a good guy (and those were hard to find). Above all, he had noticed her, at the office, up on the 57th floor of the Lake Street office where they both worked in advertising. He was a front-runner, someone who was always chasing down leads, always looking for the next idea, and Frances was full of them. She had studied at the Chicago Art Institute and was actually a talented painter (this past week all she could paint were fucshia flowers). So she helped him.
And he was so sweet, so sincere, so completely grateful that it had been honestly impossible not to fall for him. Her life, living far from her Nebraska family, was hard for her. She missed the plains, she missed the simplicity of home, family (her little brother Nick was still in high school, her baby sister almost 10 now). She had to face the world alone, and even though she was grateful to live in the Windy City, there had always been something missing. Until she met him.
That evening they had met near Halstead Street in Little Italy, at a place that Dick had sworn had great reviews, called "Bambola". The staff seemed authentically Italian, and the waitresses dark eyed and pretty. The owner was a stout Abruzzese man named Gaetano with a handlebar moustache and a polished appearance. He led them to a cozy table with a view of the misty, darkening evening in October. As they perused the small menu, Gaetano whisked away to bring them a complimentary glass of rosé (fuchsia, Frances thought, even the wine is that color!). She sat gazing into it and staring at Dick, who seemed, as usual, a bit absent. He was looking at his phone, a habit of almost every citizen of the twenty-first century, but still....
Frances opened her mouth as if to speak, then she thought better. She had prepared for this evening with such care, taking a long bath with almond butter cream, doing up her hair in pincurls, outlining her brown eyes with liquid liner, and finally, getting dressed in her soft brown frock which set off her gentle curves. She sprayed herself with a pink perfume which she had found at a penny store but which somehow reminded her of that flower, the pink-purple bloom which blew its enchanting scent all over the front porch of her Wicker Park rental. It had a smell which reminded her a bit of childhood, with a hint of adolescence as well, back when she had a bit of courage, a bit of daring. Those times seemed far away now. She was in a Situationship and she knew it. By the time the breadsticks had arrived (which in her opinion were most likely frozen), she had downed her glass of rosé and come to the sad conclusion that Dick, for all the illusions she had draped on him, was certainly out of her league. She had been the one to ask him out, more or less, in the sense that he needed help with a new perfume campaign and of course she offered. They decided to go out but as she suspected, her romantic dreams with him were certainly exaggerated. He was staring at his phone, only looking up occasionally to smile or grab a breadstick. He hadn't made any comments on her appearance at all.
"Sorry, Fran, I'm just trying to grab the file.Thanks so much for your help!" That endearing sweetness of his was so unreal, that it startled her everytime. It was strange that a man with such rugged good looks should be so kind. But at this point in the evening, it was too late for good manners.
Frances stumbled to her feet, almost sliding back into her seat (why on earth had she insisted on wearing these pinkish high heels?)
"Excuse me, I have to...." she was unable to finish the sentence, and Dick looked at her curiously as she wheeled off toward the ladies room.
In her mind there was a whirlwind as she had finally broken the last illusion which had tethered her mind to a kind of solace; that he cared about her, that she was special, that she was something more than the helpful Nebraska colleague (simp, she told herself) who was willing to lend a hand. The reality of her nonexistence was finally completely present, and she had to leave, she had to get out of this cramped, squeaky restaurant which certainly didn't deserve the reviews...
Dick's head swung away from his Samsung as the door of the restaurant slammed shut and he saw a trace of pink-purple, it seemed, in the air as Frances ran down the steps and into the night. With a flash she was gone, and when Dick came outside, the street was empty.
Frances had no memory of what happened next, only that somehow, she felt that she had left her body, and out of her forehead (they called it the third eye) there came a smoky violet light as strong as a beam on which she rode straight past the atmosphere to another time another space, another vibration....
To Oracle 54, the foggy fuchsia planet which was not really a planet but only a vibration, a thought, a feeling. Half of it was filled with your past and present and future, and the other half was a replica of your everyday world, which you could look upon with laughter or confusion, as so desired. In a flash Frances was pushed inside a dreamworld, trying to run but feeling like she was underwater, and all around her there she was, herself again but smaller, as a child, running through Nebraska cornfields, with her family, making paintings, studying art, falling in love. She tried to scream, tried to move, but only bubbles of violet water filled her mouth. Then as strong as a samurai's sword she slid out of the planet on a hard beam of light, back to earth, back to that dirty Chicago street where she came to, crumpled on the sidewalk, with her flower beside her, strangely untouched, and gleaming unnaturally.
"Frances! Are you ok? What happened?" Dick grabbed her with a kind of clumsy violence, worried.
Frances stood up slowly, as if in a trance.
"I'm fine," the words came out of her mouth with a steely calm, and she stared at him. She held the flower in her hand, and noticed it had become as hard as a piece of obsidian, while still maintaining its fuchsia gleam. She decided not to mention the details of her inter-galactic adventure. He would take her for crazy.
"I just remembered I left the stove on, I don't want to burn the place down!"
She backed away, realizing that Dick, as handsome as he was, elicited absolutely no emotion in her. She was changed.
"Oh!Alright! We'll talk later, I guess...do you want me to get you a ....!
But Frances had disappeared, and Dick was left alone, staring at a purple streak on the ground, reflecting in the streetlight. He didn't feel at all well. It must have been the wine.
Frances had made it home with no memory of how. There hadn't been a train or a bus or a taxi, all she knew is that she was staring at herself in the mirror, and that the woman she knew was gone. In the place of self-abnegating Frances, there was a woman she had never seen, with wild, moon coloured eyes, wavy fuchsia hair, and an electricity which crackled out of her on all sides.
She splashed some water on her face. Maybe she was sick.
"Fuxia....Fuck's ya" It was written on the bathroom wall. Frances stepped back and ran back to the mirror. Something was very very wrong.
