Shades of gray paint, sprinkled with plumb and deep red. Twists in the canvas make it look bizarre, broken, uncomfortable to view. The painter sits across from it, biting her lip, wringing her hands. The piece is a reflection of herself; unclear, trying too hard, overwrought. Self-expression turned sour, unintentionally truthful. Sweat beads on her forehead.
She wakes up before her alarm clock, worried. She wonders vaguely why she is upset. Fruitless. Clearly SOMETHING must be wrong, or she wouldn't be seeing such early light outside. . . . she analyzes. Frets. Rubs her feet together nervously, tugs her hair. She wrenches her fists open and lies face down, trying to find peace.
She thinks about the way she wants her world to be. Brightly colored, full of contrast, and well lit. She tries so hard to create this world, furiously painting the cold white walls around her. She realizes, suddenly, that she is using the wrong brush. This one is much too small. She sees the vastness of the room for the first time, noting the lofted ceiling and long corridors. She drops her brush, lethargic and angry. She never cries.
Pebbles appear in her backpack. She pulls them out, one by one, and runs her hands over them. They are smooth, heavy, slick. They slip between her fingers. She looks around for the culprit. Who has put them here? Crouching on the busy sidewalk, she starts pulling everything out of the bag. Without thinking, she empties the contents; exposing the sarcasm, tactlessness, make-up, depression, selfishness, breath mints, fear, control, photo ID, and vindictiveness that she carries around with her at all times. A tall and well dressed man watches from the cross walk. She averts her eyes and darts away, embarrassed, before he gets a chance to offer a hand.
At night she puts on her party dress, teases her hair. She smiles and laughs easily. It reminds her of a self-portrait she did once, where her eyes were bigger, mouth much smaller. Men dance with her, twirling her about. One asks to walk her home. She grabs her purse, and a pebble falls out. She kicks it out of sight.
She loves to cook, but almost always eats by herself. Seasons change, and she pulls on her leggings. She walks to a meeting, feeling under-dressed. A woman with stark cheekbones and dark eyes asks her what her plan is. May I see your four year plan? Hmm. What will you do with your life? Who will you become? Who will you love? Who will you vote for? When will you face your fears? Will you be a mother? When will you stop wearing such silly leggings? How will you pay your rent? What will you stand for? How will you avoid mediocrity? Hmmm.... acceptable. Fill out this form. See you next month. Oh no, we only validate parking for those with a purpose. Use a meter next time.
She turns the purple painting around when she gets home. She meets up with friends and criticizes their grammar. She talks too loudly about herself.
At work she succeeds quickly. She is described as promising, ambitious, gutsy. Potential.
Walking home in the balmy air, she softens a bit. Those stars, wow they are something. Quite beautiful really. And the water seems so peaceful tonight. She sees an older couple walking hand in hand, and she catches herself smiling. Maybe the world is kinder than she feared. Heels in hand, she strolls to the beach. She twirls herself to distant music, someone having a party. The brass players fuel her happiness, and she breathes deeply for the first time in a while. She sits to soak in the glow, and feels a familiar arm around her. He smiles with his whole face, happy to see her.
She climbs into bed, grateful for the familiar hug of the covers. She wiggles her feet, and tries to think of nothing.
Her toes touch something cold. The unwelcome pebbles gleam in the moonlight.
