House & Home

When I retell this story I’ll say it was her skin tone. Brown. Warm enough to be southern, deep enough to be local. Detroit-local were only the nape of her neck shown underneath a charcoal colored beanie and an oversized olive jacket that swallowed her figure in a way that let me know she preferred it this way.

Highlighted against a wall of color she toyed with two variations of pink, sampling the hues against her skin, as if she meant to coat herself in them. Standing there just feet away from her I watched as she placed each rejected selection back in its designated spot, careful not to bend any edges despite the disarray the paint aisle had already succumb to. Naturally, I made assumptions. Why would she go through such great lengths to sustain order in a place that neither belonged to her nor set a precedent for it? In fact, small piles of discarded colored-squares littered the ledge just beneath her fingers. Reds and oranges, yellows and purples, a disorganized display of potential that showed Detroit meant to defy the approaching winter by warming their walls. 

She was no exception. Her colors, muted in comparison, were feminine, delicate like her fingers that seemed to dance across the assortment discriminately. I watched her, masking my interests behind pints of primers that I casually compared whenever she shifted positions.  In truth, the original cause for my trip to House & Home was a 52 gallon concrete mix for the crack in the foundation of my house that had begun to worsen with my neglect. It first appeared as a small crack at the base near the stoop. Something only noticeable to a toddler observing ants crawling in and out of its crevice. With time, it became a garish gap, now it was affecting the steps which had begun to slope towards the right. It was this last development, or underdevelopment rather, that finally moved me to action. But as I stood there contemplating the sliver of brown peaking through her layers of protection I decided one more day would not cause that more damage. With two colors already selected she continued to second guess her choices in pinks and I figured this would be my window of opportunity if I was to have one. 

Selecting the most expensive primer, in case she knew what she was doing and could possibly judge my choice, I stood beside her and scoffed. Without startle she looked up at me, making eye contact before looking down at the tin can I held in my hand. 

“Are you in my way?” She asked without a hint of a smile. 

I knew right then, as I still know now, I wanted her to notice me.  

I chuckled, naturally, thrown off by her instant disapproval of my presence and yet drawn in by her quick wit. My original plan was to poke fun at her color choices by making ridiculous alternate suggestions. But suddenly she didn’t seem like the type that would have genuinely found the joke amusing so I had to improvise, quickly. 

“Perhaps you’re in mine.” I replied, hoping her response would provide a new line of conversation. 

“Oh you’re interested in blush?” She asked sarcastically, waving her hand dramatically across the section like a game show host model. 

“No.” I replied matter-of-factly, “I am interested in you, I mean pink.” I corrected with a half smile and no eye contact. 

She was in. Her chest rising beneath the weight of her garments just slightly, enough to be missed if I had not been looking for a sign. She smiled, fidgeting with her color cards as if playing poker before handing me the True Rose hue she held in her hand. 

“This one would look good on you.” 

“I agree.” I said, forcing her to make eye contact. 

“I should go. I don’t think I’m in the right head space to select a new color.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“What?” 

“You were already looking. The ‘right headspace’”, I said, slightly emphasizing my air quotes, “is not making the selection, it’s being open to the options. Making the selection, well that’s something else altogether.” 

“Oh yeah, and what would you call that?” She asked, leaning her hip against the wall and observing me more closely.

“Pick a color and I’ll tell you.” 

Her cheeks creeped up on her eyes as the corners of her mouth rose to a smile brighter than any I had ever seen on an adult. A smile perfect enough for commercials but real enough to call family. A smile I intended to see again and again even if my every cent was spent on quality, unused primer. 

In this way we continued the rest of the afternoon. Adjusting our banter to suit whatever aisle we found ourselves in as we walked throughout the store together. We made up origin stories for couples we passed in the hardware section, argued over which address font seemed most gentrified, and finally founded an Adopt-A-Pot plant group where she refused to be anything but President while I was appointed Sargent At Arms…though later demoted to general member when I failed to secure a buggy. 

That afternoon I remembered that I tend to get violent hiccups when I laugh too much, something I had not noticed I’d forgotten. I missed calls and ignore text messages and nothing seemed more important than getting to know her. We mixed in real life questions in the midst of all our foolishness, both of us sharing the responsibility of stirring up the flame of the conversation whenever its embers seemed to flicker. She finally grew hungry and though I urged her to accompany me to the salad place next door she refused. We purchased our adopted plants, I named hers Blush, she named mine Buggy.

Together we exited House & Home with neither paint nor concrete mix, with plants neither of us needed and a connection both of us wanted. I volunteered to walk her to her car only to learn that this was her neighborhood and that her home was only a few blocks away. I took this as a sign. The universe intended for our conversation to continue, I intended for our conversation to continue, and though she pushed back against allowing me to know where she lived, sharing statistics of various serial killers and quoting gruesome documentaries. Finally, I agreed to walk away the moment we reached her block so as not to see which house she entered. This satisfied her only slightly and she took the next few minutes to detail all the ways she would kill me if I attempted to kill her first. 

Eventually the morbid tone faded away allowing curiosity and interest to resettle. She asked me about my past and I shared myself with her, words slipping out of my mouth beyond my permission. Moments I had resigned to the periphery of my subconscious now unhinged themselves from the guilt that held them in place, accepting her questioning as perfumed invitations to enter into her awareness requested and free. The more she asked the more I wanted to share, the more I shared the more I felt like I belonged. Using my past as currency to purchase real estate in the interest of her heart. Building a home there that I wished to enter, to settle in, to decorate and make my own. 

She was more reserved than I. Many of my questions were returned with short, detailed-less sentences and much redirection. Yet in between the skirting away and obvious discomfort I learned of her love for the written word, a fact I should have assumed from the effortless eloquence she casually employed when expressing herself. Joy framed the edges of her eyes when I inquired about her niece and nephew and in this topic her words flowed as if coated in oil. 

We finally reached her gated lawn and I apologized for not reminding her to stop us earlier. She vowed to have me arrested and we parted with a handshake she extended before I could suggest otherwise. I asked to call her as she climbed the front steps and she denied me her phone number until I could pay her back with the paint I had distracted her from buying. 

Within the hour I was back at her doorstep with four different variations of pink from the highest quality brand they carried. I placed them at her doorstep before rushing back down the steps and through the gate so as not to overstep her very literal boundaries. Her smile replaced the fading light of the sky as she read the names of each can from atop the stairs. Grabbing the one I knew she would prefer she turned away, shouting her number into the wind before disappearing behind the mahogany door. 

That night we discussed annoying family members, outdated belief systems, and the fears that kept us choosing comfort. The delirium of night allowed me to learn more details about her life as she shared openly through the veil of the phone. I recounted stories with a degree of transparency only a stranger can facilitate and yet the closeness I felt towards her resembled that of a childhood friend. 

As we spoke I wondered what the feeling encompassing every corner of my being could be called. I was scarred enough, old enough, ruined enough to not call it love. Intrigued enough, taken enough, pulled far beyond the shallow reaches of lust not to demean in that way. Words such as “like”, “desire”, “want” seemed infantile in her presence and so I was at a loss. 

What do you call a physical stranger with a familiar soul? Can new beginnings feel like old times and is there a bus stop on the corner of knowing and unknown? How can the present feel like forever, and forever feel like you thought it would last longer? Can the displaced air of fluttering butterflies wings be heard over the phone? If there was an off ramp on the highway of solitude would you explore the captivating roads of belonging? 

What do you call gravity that allows you to float? 

Morning light found us connected still, bound to one another in speech and breathing, willfully exchanging our singular existence for a latched reality if only momentarily. Responsibility finally settled in, the day’s duties pulled us apart, forcing me to interact with a world I no longer belonged to. A world without her. The mindless monotony of my daily routines closed in on me, highlighting all the ways I had ceased to exist, suffocating me from without as regret tightened its grip from within. Things and places and people I had tolerated now seemed insufferable. I became painfully aware of the dullness of my life and I wondered how long I had been muted. 

The hours dragged mercilessly across the darkening sky and I saw the color pink everywhere I looked. I could not wait to return to her, to return to myself. 

When night finally arrived I visited her steps, bringing plant food for Blush as a peace offering for showing up unannounced. In my newly established routine I knocked on the door before rushing back out the gate to await the smile that could drown a thousand sunsets. 

From the door emerged a familiar face, ruined by pain so palpable I could feel it on my own. My wife, cheeks stained with ruined makeup, holding my sleeping son now nestled beneath the bend of her neck. Behind them both I saw her frame the threshold of the door. Her eyes piercing my own with what I perceived then to be wrath, but what I know now to be contempt. Shame washed over me in relentless waves, tides as high as hope drowning me in a pit of despair. 

Only my wife spoke. Asking fair questions to an unfair man who could not possibly answer with anything worthy of their approval. She mocked my immaturity, pointed out my sloppiness, named my insecurities in front of the whole world, a world of one, a world that no longer wished to host my presence. Every door around me seemed to close, trapping me in unimaginable sorrow, with neither solution nor solace, without the consolation of an old relationship or the joys of a new one.

In one night I lost more than what I ever had. Accepting that I could never repay the outstanding debt I have incurred in the receipt of their hearts. My wife chose to forgive me, something I regret asking for. My son has a father at home, even if it is the muted version of what I perceived I could have been. I have, with all known effort, attempted to integrate myself back into a routine that now feels foreign. Bursting through the seams of a life that no longer fits. On occasion I visit House & Home and finger the color cards perfectly organized by hue. I always take a shade of pink, tucking into my pocket, a comfort blanket of sorts that’s neither a blanket nor sufficient comfort. My wife is expecting a girl now. I’ll eventually select one of these pinks for the nursery. Always looking for new ways to torture myself over the choices I am still too much of a coward to make. 

When I retell this story, if I retell this story, I’ll say it was her skin tone. Brown. Warm enough to be southern, deep enough to be local. I’ll neglect to say it was providence, a summoning, a call deep enough to awaken the slumbering of my soul.