All I See is Red

What day is it today? They all look the same. Their outlines are blurred.

It’s 2:17 a.m. and I’ve given up trying to sleep for now. When I close my eyes, all I see is red. I don’t get why I keep associating the virus with the color red. People don’t even bleed or anything. It’s not a spectacularly red death like in some end of the world movie with zombies.

Red is also the color of her hair. Ruby red. And the light under which I first saw her. I mean, really saw her. Red made it different, brought some deepness to her dark shadowy eyes. Her puzzling stare, like a quiet suggestion. I was struck by the way she looked at me that night. I was so suddenly overcome by desire that I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had told me I was shaking. An urge that came all the way up from my womb to my throat. Unexpected, new, overwhelming. No woman has ever looked at me like that.

Red is also the color of the stain on my best sheet. Brownish brick red. I know I should do something about that, quickly, so I could take most of the stain out. I’ve done that before, of course. But right now I just don’t care. It’s my second period during quarantine. Taboos don’t make sense anymore. And I don’t have the energy. It’s like I’m lacking the energy even to go to sleep. All I can think about is red.

At 2:43 I’m alert as a cat hunting in the dark. This afternoon, I’ve decided to drink a cup of tea every time I thought about checking out my DMs. I feel closer to her just knowing she’s online. As if she’s behind a glass. I can’t touch, but I can see. I feel her presence. That’s the closest I can get since she doesn’t reply to me.

But this sounds like something a school girl would do. When you’re almost 30, that’s ridiculous. So here enters the cup of tea. Or the 14 cups of tea, to be exact. Green, black, white, in a circle. If I keep on like that, I’ll need to go to the market soon. Or maybe I could switch to coffee or something.

I wish I had adopted that cat. Munchies would be her name. I keep telling myself ‘Oh, but I’d really love to leave everything behind and go hitchhike around South Asia’, and of course I wouldn’t be able to do that if I had a cat. It’s like a baby, after all.

What a bucket full of shit. I’m not brave enough. Not even close. And now, what? No cat during social distancing. Definitely, no South Asia. Just that spider up there. Eight thin black legs surrounded by an intricate work of art made of protein. Spider silk, according to Wikipedia.

I don’t think about killing it anymore. It’d take a lot of effort to reach the ceiling, and she’s my only companion after all. Look at that, I’ve personified the spider! I guess I’ve been growing fond of her these past few weeks. But she may not be alive, she never moves.

My stories would be busy with Munchies' photos now. Lounging in the spring sunlight, among the piles of old books and the boxes of paintbrushes. Sitting on the shelf and staring at all the heads I’ve recently sculpted out of clay so I’d feel less lonely.

She’d finally react to my stories. No doubt she would. She’s a crazy cat lady.

Would she react to a spider? 

My neighbors upstairs have decided to have loud sex in the middle of the night. As if they’re not cooped up inside the same fucking flat the entire day. I can’t stand the moaning right now, so I have my headphones on. To keep desperation outside my mind.

Because I desperately need to touch someone. The darkness makes it worse. No cloth, no paper, no clay, no plastic, no wood, no metal, no stone. Skin. White, black, brown, yellow, green, purple, it doesn’t matter. Skin.

Oh, and breath. Someone breathing close to me. The soft sound, the warmth, the smell. Not a few meters away, not behind a mask, not in the supermarket. Next to my mouth, next to my skin. On my bed.

It’s 3:24 and I can barely breathe. Difficulty breathing, one of the symptoms. But it’s not because of the virus. Well, it is. In a way. I can’t handle these thoughts right now. They’re suffocating me. I feel such an urge to touch somebody. Not even her, just somebody. Another living creature.

But then comes the fear, rushing in. Will it ever feel the same to touch another body? Will it ever feel safe again? Millennials are already not having a lot of sex, I’ve read that somewhere. I wonder… Will they end up used to the physical distance after this? Will they overcome the need of another body breathing next to them?

Will I?

Would it ever cross her mind that I’m awake at 3:41 a.m. thinking about her? Do I ever cross her mind? In my head, it’s her or the virus. Her, the virus. Back and forth, non-stop. Shades of red.

Let me tell you what else is red. The plump lips displayed on the wall in Mr. Olivier’s place. I can see them just above his pinkish scalp during our video calls. There’s no face, just some cherry red lips floating around against a black background with patches of yellow. Such a dreadful taste. The same about his marketing ideas. And his jokes.

I should really go to sleep. I have a call at 9 a.m. with Mr. Pathetic. Fuck. I can’t stand designing campaigns for banks anymore, nor following his orders. I need a new job. Or a one-way ticket to South Asia. Well, when there are flights again.

She was wearing a scarlet lipstick the last time I met her. It colored the pizza crust when she took a bite. That same night, I dreamed that I, not the pizza, was red. All over my body. Patches of color against the fair skin of my neck, my chest, my thighs… Marked by her never ending lipstick. Like a trail, so I could find my way back. To her.

I know I should be patient. The timing couldn’t be worse. But I feel trapped inside these high walls, me and my gripping feelings. I can’t focus on anything else. I want her, and I want her now. I picture myself riding to her flat, knocking on the door at 4 a.m. Just to see her. No, to tell her how deeply I desire her. How it’s burning me from the inside out. That I had to tell her or I would explode.

I won’t, though. Neither tell her, nor explode.

First of all, we’re in the middle of a fucking pandemic. I’m too scared to even go out grocery shopping.

Also, it’s inappropriate. She’s in a relationship. I should respect that. Besides, what’s the point of telling her how I feel? If she wants to hold on to her commitment (and she does, as far as I know), chances are that she would ghost me.

Would it make a difference, though? She’s already not answering my messages, anyway.

I’m doing it again. I’m in love with the idea of her. With the idea of being in love with her. And it won’t be anything more than that: an idea. Because I’m a fucking coward. And a control freak. It’s like South Asia. Or James from my 1st year. Or Matthew throughout high school. I’ve spent years not acting on my feelings. I’m an expert.

In my head I can control everything. I can’t be rejected, can I? Not for real. There’s always some hope, this way.

The only difference now is that she’s a woman.

Does it make a difference?

I just wish she would just reply to my stories. Why does she only visualize them? Is she not interested at all? Or, maybe…

Maybe she’s too interested and can’t control her thoughts. Maybe they’re gripping her insides too. And she’s trying to keep a distance to preserve her relationship. Maybe she’s torn between the two of us.

I guess that’s my ego speaking. I don’t care. It’s comforting.

At 4:53 I feel like I’m the lone survivor of this endless night. As if it were a tunnel I’m going through, and there’s a whole new world on the other side. I can hear birds in the distance. It’s solitary, but it’s soothing.

I’ll close my eyes now. And let the red embrace me.

Finally.