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I settled beneath the comforter and looked up at the ceiling. The windows caught shadows cast from the streetlights, and I wiggled in an attempt to get comfortable.
I wondered how many more nights I’d be falling asleep like this.
Pretending.
Until it all stopped and I didn’t have to worry about pretending anymore.
Or fighting.
Or breathing.
* * *
It wasa little past six at night when I finally caught a cab home. With the paint and clay off my body, I realized how hungry I was. I paid the cabbie and looked up at my apartment building.
If only those people back home could see what had become of me.
Seattle was beautiful and messy—a chaos that matched my constant internal struggle. After seven years here, I figured I’d be used to it. But it seemed Seattle wasn’t something to get used to. It was a chameleon of different cultures and textures of life. And I was smack dab in the middle of it.
I thought back on my high school days with a sense of nostalgia as I unlocked my apartment door.
Would my life be all that much different if I’d stayed?
Yes.
I would be Mrs. Andrews for sure. But at what cost?
When Dexter walked away from me, I knew it was either I skip out or I become something toxic between the two of us. He’d done us a favor, ending it when he had. And I had done us a favor in leaving, because I knew he’d come back for me.
Someone as good as Dexter deserved better than to become a shadow. To be constantly worrying over me, living a ghost of a life. Because I’d always let him down.
I pulled off my maroon turtleneck, stretching and placing it on the separator I’d gotten from the little vintage shop around the corner. This apartment was everything I ever wanted in life: security, comfort, and beauty. Books piled on the floor and table tops. The large windows wore black heavy curtains that only let the light in when I pulled them back. I stretched out on my chaise lounge, pulling the book I’d been reading a few nights ago from beneath it.
Tonight was different. I sighed, looking at the walls that were covered in the coveted paintings I’d acquired throughout the years, some pieces my own, others from artists I’d met along the way. I was restless tonight, uneasy in my own routine.
I wanted a drink.
When days were long and nights were lonely, it was so easy. I didn’t have a roommate and Tim had long since stopped calling to check up on me.
Each morning, unless I stayed at my studio the night before, I woke up before the sun rose, went running to my studio, and holed up in there after a shower, painting whatever I was feeling. For some reason, whatever I was feeling was fashionable lately and more and more clients were demanding whatever else I could come up with.
After I was through, I would head home and pick a book from one of many piles or watch a movie. Most days, anyway. Sometimes, on a great day, I indulged in an outing.
Dates? None worth remembering.
Boyfriends? I didn’t want to make the time for them.
After having felt the burn of love, it frightened me. What started off as a passionate fire that kindled just right—even if a little too hot at times—ended up leaving me scorched. The bluest of all fires. And I had poor social etiquette, always saying exactly what I was thinking. Men tended to run for the hills after a few minutes with me.
Dexter hadn’t minded. Dexterlovedit.
A few days ago, I sold every painting of mine at a showcase.
Somehow, it felt like Dexter had been with me. I felt like that girl with blue hair and the hope to keep her from drowning.
But it was impossible because I’d never be her again.
I walked through my apartment, whistling some sad tune.
