OPPORTUNITIES

CW: Death.

I kick my feet through the piles of dead, April leaves. They crunch under my feet, the crackling noise scratching an unreachable part of my wounded soul, offering a little relief. My friends have begun referring to me as hopeless. I bet Sean’s friends aren’t bartering for him to leave the house. No, he seemed plenty fine when he packed his bags, no warning and walked out of our engagement, our house, our life. Walked out on me.

I huff and trudge further down the path, I’d only gone on this walk to escape my mother, who I had moved back in with. Mostly it was okay but she’d been bugging me as of late to get out more.

So, here I am, in the bush on a Saturday, walking among the trees.

It’s actually pretty peaceful out here. Autumn has always been my favourite season, the temperature just getting cold enough to rug up and place comfort over style.

I hear a whipbird close by and I stop to listen, the distinctive whistle is loud making it hard to tell where its coming from. I spin as I hear it again, turning to try and pinpoint his spot; their feathers are amazing in the sun.

The movement makes my head spin, coupled with the fact I hadn’t eaten properly in days, I wobble and crouch to the ground. The earth is damp and cold beneath my fingers as I clutch at it to find my balance. My hand curls around the stem of a leaf. Its huge I realise as I look down and I can’t place what tree it could have possibly come from. It is all one solid, pale yellow, the sun shining through it to reveal a complicated tangle of webbed veins, almost gold in colour. I twirl it in my hands, fascinated, and I see a sparkle blink into existence for a single second. I frown at the leaf.

What the?

I twirl it again and cast it aside, immediately forgotten as I stare at what the leaf was hiding; a ring. It barely even looks real. It seems to be an engagement ring, one which bears a striking resemblance I think to the ring I wanted as a child. It’s a dainty gold band housing a massive diamond set among the bluest sapphires.

I reach out to touch it. If only to confirm its existence and sure enough my hand makes contact. The metal is warm, unlike how I thought it would be and my eyes are drawn to the strikingly bare skin of my left ring finger. The white tan line is still there, a stark reminder of the fresh heartbreak. I laugh and it’s a full belly laugh; the irony is not lost on me.

Fighting down a few residual giggles I turn the ring over in my palm and stare at it. I blink and when I open my eyes the ring is on my finger, my neck clammy with sweat. I frown, did I put that on?

My phone buzzes in my pocket jolting me out of my reverie and as I stand out of my crouch my muscles protest, as if overworked. Struggling to pull my phone out I absently glance at the watch on my wrist.

The hour hand rests with the minute on twelve.

Midday. I exhale surprised. I had left the house at 9AM, how long had I been out here? I chuckle nervously to the trees.

My phone is lit up with several text messages, mostly from my Mum glad to see I’m not home this weekend. And a couple from my friend, Angie.

Shit, I forgot we had a coffee date.

I take off speed walking, luckily for me this town isn’t very big and I know the path I’m on will lead me to Norton Street, the only main street here, in a couple of minutes.

I’m out of breath by the time I reach Gusto’s, our go-to spot. Angie is waiting out the front sitting in front of a no longer steaming mug of hot chocolate. She raises her eyebrows when she sees me.

“I am so, so sorry, I completely lost track of time,” I plead to her.

She snorts, “I would have ordered you a cup but I wasn’t sure you were even gonna show,” her tone is snarky.

“I can get my own,” I say as I slip inside, the scent of freshly baked goods assaulting my senses. My mouth waters, I still haven’t eaten.

I make my way to the front of the line and smile at the server who raises a questioning eyebrow at my attempt at cheerfulness, her gloomy expression divulging how long her work day has been. I order a mocha and one of the huge chocolate muffins from the teeming display cabinet. Pulling out my card, she grabs at my hand and shrieks,

“Oh, my lord, just look at that ring! That is gorgeous, don’t you even worry about this one it’s on the house!” I grin shocked by her sudden one-eighty. My face slowly turns to a frown as I leave the register, do I really look like that much of a mess?

As I step to pick up my order there is a kerfuffle at the counter, I manage to slip past paying no mind to the man.

Outside I offer half the muffin to Angie and she sulkily accepts.

I know the storm has passed.

It's Monday and unfortunately real life is back. I click my computer screen to life, sitting at the lifeless desk of my nine-to-five.

The office is half an hour outside of the town and no matter what, the inside is always freezing. I stretch back in my chair and scrub at my eyes. It pays the bills but it’s hardly where my heart lies.

I think of the gallery I’m renting on Harbour Street back in town as I listen to the mindless whir of computers surrounding me.

This job is keeping that dream alive.

Riding that thought my numb fingers clack through the day.

I pull my lumbar support pillow off the chair and stuff it into my bag on the ground, preparing to dash as quickly as I can to my car- when high-heeled toes step into my line of vision. My eyes travel slowly up the person taking in the straight line, grey pencil skirt; the ill-fitting white button up which hangs on her frame; and finally, the red lipstick-stained teeth which stare at me in what I can only assume is a smile.

“Moira, could I talk to you in my office?”

A coil of fear slithers into my stomach, taking residence and turning my insides to sludge with every step we take. She closes the door behind us and my breath hitches,

“So much for dreams,” I whisper under my breath.

“What was that?” she asks.

I snap my mouth close.

She nods from across the desk and clicks a few things on her computer. In the silence I prepare for the worst.

“So, Moira, you’ve been here with us for two years now,” she’s peering at the screen.

I nod silently before realising she isn’t looking at me and squeak out a yes.

She turns to face me, clasping her hands in front of her. I hold my breath.

“Its excellent work you’ve been doing.”

I exhale.

“Have you ever thought about taking time off? I know things have been…different for you,” she pauses before different and glances down at the ring. I know she’s talking about Sean and for once I’m not horrified at the small-town gossip. The ring burns hot as I wonder if she thinks I’m still wearing his engagement ring, I suppose she would.

“I’ve arranged two weeks paid leave for you.”

I stare, dumbfounded, maybe it’s not so bad that’s what she thinks.

“There will be no excuses I expect you to say thank you, walk out of here and live it up for a while.”

I’m still reeling when I leave her office and as I round the corner I bump into Stacey, she barely looks at me her face down as she talks into a phone but I can see the glisten of fresh tears streaming down her face. She’s gone around another bend before I get the chance to say anything.

Paid leave? I smile my first genuine smile in a while and jump into my car. Things are looking up.

A week into my leave and I’m starting to remember how to live. I’m free to do whatever I want and I’ve spent the last week cooped up in my gallery, painting. The shop isn’t big so the back half doubles as a workshop space and a large canvas sheet covers the entire floor. My head is tilted to the left as I stare at the metre’s wide canvas, taking in my latest piece. I almost don’t hear the bell ring as the door is swung open. I turn when I hear footsteps close behind. A man wearing sunglasses and an expensive three-piece suit, approaches. His beach blonde hair is tousled and as he slips off his glasses, I see gorgeous blue eyes. His boyish looks clash with the seriousness of his face.

“Hi, sorry to intrude you look busy, although you do have an open sign in the window,” he shrugs.

“I always have time for visitors,” I smile gently. 

“Are all these yours?” he is motioning around the room to the various hung artworks but his eyes are glued behind me.

“Yeah, it’s all mine,” I reply.

He stares still transfixed and I turn back to look as well. He is silent as he joins at my side and I shuffle nervously from foot to foot.

“It’s not done yet,” I excuse.

“It’s exquisite,” he says not a heartbeat later.

An unexpected thrill runs through me as I try to look at it through his awed eyes. I see two hands; each tangled in their own rope and binds desperately trying to reach for each other but never quite being able to meet. The left hand is dripping in gold and encrusted in jewels, the bounty it owns seemingly weighing it down, the image glimmers even in the weak light of the studio. The right is bound in vines which creep and leave red raw marks on the flesh, the skin bubbling at their touch. He’s right, it’s my best work to date.

He turns sharply to me.

“I would love to display this piece in my show. I’m actually just stopping by, on my way to Melbourne. My car got a flat and honestly now I’m happy it did.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card passing it to me, “did you have a contact?”

I stare star-struck at the gold embossed name, Simon Baker. THE Simon Baker?

He’s watching me and I realise he’s waiting for a response.

“OMG, yes!” I rush to my front desk and whip open a drawer rifling through the many papers before finding a singular card. I thank the lord and brush off the crumbs of the cookies I keep hidden in there, thrusting it into his waiting hands.

“I’ll call you,” he says and is out the door in the next second.

I collapse where I stand and take several calming breaths.

Did that really just happen?

I’m floating on cloud nine. How could life have ever been bad before this?

I whistle as I walk down the street, smiling at everyone who passes me. I think back to even just a week ago, how down in the dumps I was. Even Mum’s commented on my improvement, she said my lucks changed.

To my left some boots in a store window catch my eye. The white snake skin thigh highs would look amazing at a Melbourne art show and I duck inside to make the less than guilty purchase.

I leave the store, bag in hand, as the sun shines on my face. Across the street I see Angie lounging at one of Gusto’s tables. I wave but she doesn’t notice so I walk toward the street to say hello. Something glints down on the sidewalk and I bend down, reaching with my fingers for the item.

I hear it before I see it.

A dull squelch, like toes sifting through mud, reaches my ears before shattering glass and screams. My body feels leaden as I slowly turn. The lady who must have left the shop just after me has her mouth wide open. Her eyes are bulging within their sockets, her raised eyebrows screaming, what is hell going on?

I gape back at her listless face, which sits in front of me on the pavement, her body standing upright, obviously not having gotten the memo.

Blood seeps out from the jagged slice at her neck, wetting my open toe wedges.

My mouth is opening and closing like a stunned fish and there are hands pulling me back now. Sirens off in the distance. Spit off to the side of the commotion I slide down the outside brick wall of the butcher and unfurl my hand.

Sitting in my stiff fingers is the ring, no longer on my finger it gleams proudly on my palm. I can imagine its sparkles almost saying aren’t you glad you have me? That could have been you ya know? Aren’t you glad?

I can see pictures in the cut edges of the gems now, me at the coffee shop that first fateful day, the ring heavy on my hand as I grab my free coffee, sidestepping the man who goes to grab his own and spills its entirety on his starch white shirt. He storms past Angie and I, in too much of a rush to get a new one now that he has to change.

And there I am again, at work this time walking out of my boss’s office passing Stacey on the phone. I can hear her words now as she tells her father she can’t make it out of state for his 90^th birthday, the leave she requested was denied.

And then the street, the woman’s face, oh god please not again.

I retch off into the side of the street and screw my eyes closed. I can’t see it again.

I stifle my oncoming shrieks with my hand and shove the ring deep into my pocket. It doesn’t matter I can still feel its heat burning through to my skin.

I don’t remember much of making it off the street but I don’t go home. I find myself in the studio sitting in front of my painting, twirling the ring between my fingers. The piece is done now, my arms covered in red paint, the colour the same of the deep, dark red of blood which stains the suede of my shoes. I can’t be sure but I think it gave me this painting, it certainly gave me Simon Baker and the thought makes tears well in my eyes. It was never me.

I lay down letting the ring lay loosely in my grasp as I eventually drift into a dreamless doze.

The shrill ring of the studio’s phone jerks me awake. Its evening now and I squint to adjust to the lost light. I fumble my way to the phone and answer groggily.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Moria Banks?” the voice is a chipper young woman.

“This is she,” I say cautiously.

“I’m calling on behalf of Simon Baker,” I lose myself in my head, drowning at those words, “just wanted to touch base and let you know that was when the show was happening, are you still interested?” The world sharpens again.

I hesitate, my eyes finding my left hand. There is no white tan line now, just a heavy ring, sparkling as if it belongs there. I don’t remember putting it back on but I’m not surprised.

“Moria?” the girl questions.

“Uh yeah, that sounds great, I’ll start arranging transport now.”

“Great! We’ll be in touch,” the phone line clicks off.

My first curls around the warm band and I smile as I throw open the gallery doors and make my way down the street. After all, I already bought the boots.