VIOLET WITHOUT

Aida pushed her seat away from the cubicle and stood to gather the little personal belongings that she had placed on the table at the beginning of the day and threw them into her bag. She had only been working at the call centre for a week now, but she knew that she needed to practice her daily mantra on not getting comfortable on the job. Comfort kills, she thought to herself, as she walked with her coffee mug towards the sink and rinsed absentmindedly. Her coworkers paid her little attention as they passed by, and she found that recently it was something that she wanted.

She left the building quietly, and set out into the street to walk in the same direction as she had everyday for the past four months, well before she had decided to get her new job. The monotony of the action was always enough to keep her mind not quite grounded, but blank enough that she was content with the fact that nothing mattered to her anymore. There was nothing behind her and nothing in front of her. No cars, no trees, no lampposts and no stores. Just the distance between her starting point and her home, and vice versa.

 But these days, the thick veil was beginning to allow some transparency depending on the direction the wind of her emotions blew, and there was one place she was becoming fixated on during her walks- the art supply store across the street. Her brown eyes always lingered for a long moment past the glass windows; the easel placed sideways in front of the biggest window of the store with a crooked sign signalling a new sale, the other easels scattered around with canvases stacked on them. And now, the addition of a bouquet of iris flowers in a vase, set upon the table beside the entrance door caught her eye where she stood. 

She found herself missing the disorganization of it all, of the process of painting in her studio. She missed the mess, how paint always found its way onto her eyebrows, forehead and hair. The footsteps of Sophia as she came down from the living room and towards her that she never heard when she was in front of her painting. And the sweet laugh that always erupted from Sophia’s lips when she finally turned away from her canvas, with her hair frazzled and a paintbrush tucked behind her ear. She missed the kisses and the mock-exasperation as Sophia reminded her that she would need to eat at some point, that the clients could wait, and don’t you miss me?

And of course she did. All I do is miss you, Aida thought.

 But it made no difference now because she could no longer tell Sophia that. It had been six months since the chance was ripped away from her. She had cycled through every stage of grief but the last, and for the first time, standing where she was, she wondered if she could step into the last stage without a total relapse. Aida gripped both hands tightly on the long black strap of her handbag thrown against her shoulder and turned left, for the stoplight and towards the art supply store.

She reached the entrance, and hesitated as she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the glass. She had changed so much, she thought as she took in the firm ponytail of braids void of any more regard than necessary, her uncharacteristically dark clothes and the hollow set around her eyes that was gradually easing. She wondered briefly if she would ever be herself again, and for the hundredth time what it meant to be herself after losing Sophia. It had been just the both of them for so long. 

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

It was an overwhelming feeling, walking through a place that she had actively and then subconsciously avoided for so long. She felt the sense of longing that she had pushed down with the guilt of trying to carry on, while her wife was left behind, finally became overlapped for the first time as she stopped at the aisle with her favourite oil brushes. Aida ran her thumb over the bristles of a flat brush and exhaled. She picked it up, and walked farther down the aisle to stop by the oil paints. She stooped down to look for the colours that she needed, and grabbed the titanium white and ultramarine violet and headed to the cash register.

When she stepped outside the store, it somehow felt different. There was a bike rack to the left of the store’s entrance, a flower shop further down the street, the sounds that one would expect of a busy street at five thirty in the evening. Her walk felt a bit disorienting.

Once she made it into her home, she did not just simply take off her shoes and collapse onto the couch like she usually did. Aida made her way halfway up the stairs, and stopped halfway, realizing that going into their bedroom with all of Sophia’s items still left in as though life had stood still since February, would crumble her resolve. With determination, she turned around and stepped back down briskly and headed for her studio room downstairs. 

Aida took a moment to absorb in the room. It was a bit cold and dusty. Her supplies were too tidy, it was another frozen space in her life. She dropped her handbag by the last step, walked towards the table beside her easel and upended the plastic bag with her supplies onto the table. She hung up the neck of her coat on the edge of the table, and began to set up. Brushes, paint, palette plates. She needed more primer, but there would be tomorrow. For today, she needed to start. Once she set her table, Aida took a step back and faced the easel shrouded in a long, grey drapery. With a long breath she pulled away the cloth and let it fall carelessly on the ground behind her. She unveiled her wife’s beautiful face looking back at her with a bouquet of iris flowers that remained unfinished. 

Aida suddenly found herself crying. It had been too long since she had seen Sophia’s bursting smile, and it pained and warmed her simultaneously. She wished that she had been able to finish the painting like she had promised she would, even though Sophia had told her not to worry about it. And now she understood that she had a duty to herself to finish it, to immortalize Sophia in her most beautiful state even if the reason was selfish. 

She positioned the easel closer to the table, picked up her brush. And she began to paint.