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“Stop all that sulking. I gave them a glowing review of the work you do here.”
“You did what?”
“You’re really going to sit there and act surprised?” Erin pulled up a seat next to Julia’s desk, the familiarity of a shared space reassuring them both instantly. Julia’s expression didn’t change. “Jules, really?”
“I, I–” she stuttered, completely unable to form a complete thought in her head. Erin, as stubborn as she was, just waited. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out at last.
“A little credit would be nice,” Erin said, her voice weighed down with disappointment. Julia didn’t know what to say next. With a sigh, Erin stood. “I’m going to get some work done in my office, if you need me.”
“Thanks.” Julia nodded as Erin walked towards the door. Just as she was about to disappear around the corner, she added, “Erin?” Erin stopped without a second thought. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And I am sorry,” she paused, watching Erin’s eyebrow arch, “for everything.”
Erin gave a brief soft smile and disappeared into the hallway, leaving Julia with an excruciatingly unproductive rest of the night.
She stared at her work as the clock ticked past another hour, but she couldn’t focus on anything with the knowledge that Erin was just a few doors down. She had so many things to accomplish with the field trip Monday, but every single sentence she read, she reread four times before fully understanding.
“Ugh!” she grunted, leaning her head on her desk.
Trying any longer was futile–more of a waste of time than if she went home and watched a cheesy movie while binging on an entire bag of butter-drenched popcorn.
She packed up her things and then walked down the hall to Erin’s office.
“Hey,” Julia the corner and gave a little wave, “I’m going to head out. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Have a good night, Julia.”
“You too.”
She didn’t linger, didn’t want to make their encounters any more awkward than they quickly became earlier. After the day she had and how early she had to be up tomorrow, she was sure she’d feel the exhaustion as soon as she stepped into the house. But that was wishful thinking.
***
As she rinsed her coffee mug in the sink, her work bag already emptied and readied for the morning, she was wide awake with anticipation. She forced herself to crawl between the sheets with a book gripped in her hands. She read for maybe an hour before her eyes burned with exhaustion. The plot was on a downward spiral–a cowboy who was about to lose his farm fell in love with a big-time city realtor rethinking her life–and Julia lost interest two chapters ago.
She tried to close her eyes, tempted to see if she could fall into the soundlessness of night instead of the silence echoing in her ears. But she didn’t.
Sitting up, she pushed the blankets off in a frustrated heap. She envied people with narcolepsy, or even more so, people who could fall asleep anywhere. Those old-timers in nursing homes that pass out over their green Jello, heads dangling over lump bodies? That’s the goal.
Instead of lying there tossing and turning, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She let them dangle there for a moment, the cool air tickling her toes, mesmerized by the little blob of light over her driveway–small flying insects twirling in a never-ending tornado beneath its shine. Then her gaze fell to the corner of the room where a blank canvas leaned against the wall, dust coating its edges.
She had a painting room. One of the extra bedrooms in the house has a wall full of books, half of which she hasn’t read yet, and part of which she’ll never be able to get to before she dies. On the other side of that same room sat an easel. In the corner was a rocking chair adorned with a red shawl–Marin’s place to sit and read while Julia painted with wild, untamed wonder.
After Marin left, she couldn’t bring herself to step back into it. All she could think of was all the long nights they used to spend in there, completely independent while relying on the other’s presence. Every time she saw the pale cardinal on the walls, all she could think of was how the afternoon lights reflected off her ruby hair.
After a few months, she tried to paint again but couldn’t bear the scent of Marin embedded in the gypsum lining the walls. She got so frustrated at one point, she dragged her old rickety easel out of the room with the bare minimum of supplies she’d need, and she set up shop in the corner of her bedroom.
Even then, she lost count of how many times she sat on that stool and begged for anything to spew from her fingertips. Was it a dozen times before she gave up entirely? Instead of thinking about it anymore, she stood to her aching legs. It’d been such a long week and the weight of it pulled down her body.
She walked to the easel and took a seat on the cold wooden stool. Picking up one of the paintbrushes, she held it in her hand while the familiarness of its weight sunk back in. She dotted her pallet with various paint colors and then dipped the tip of the bristles into steel blue.
Her hand moved over the canvas in feather light strokes. She melded shades of indigo and apricot, crashing into cliffs of goldenrod and lilac, disappearing behind clouds of muted teals. She wasn’t sure what it would be yet; she just knew she had to get it out.
She glided with that motion. Her arm tired quickly, muscles and swift motions long forgotten. She dropped the paintbrush into a cup of water and rubbed her eyes. As she pulled her hands away, they were damp. The neckline of her shirt was drenched in salty tears. She didn’t even realize at what point tears began to fall from her eyes, dotting the paint pallet on her lap with tiny raindrops made entirely for her.
She took a deep breath–her hand pressed against her chest to remind herself there was still a heartbeat somewhere within there–and then closed her eyes. She squeezed the last of the falling droplets out and then wiped her eyelids dry. In a mountainous jumble, she fell onto the bed and buried her face into the pillow. Sleep would come eventually.
