The Purple Pen

It’s a purple Paper Mate pen I swirl around in my fingers, unwilling to touch it’s tip to paper. Perhaps I should have grabbed another pen, Maria had pressed the tip so intensely into her colouring paper the ink had long become inconsistent.

When I used to write, I had a beautiful fountain pen. It’s ink, the colour of the sleek black night sky, would flow neatly onto the crisp paper. Characters seemed to form themselves from the tip, spilling out onto the neatly lined pages. The piquant scent of old paper still remains, wafting gently out into the room.

It’s no use trying to write, 19 year old me was creative and boundless. I was that girl that could not be tied down, wild and free. An author, I said I would be. I’d write tales all of my life, while exploring the most beautiful places in the world. But that was the past me, I had changed. Everybody changes, right? It would be best I just let it go.

I visited Paris when I was 21, I recalled wistfully. I went perusing L’Avenue de Suffren, flirting with the handsome barista while sipping my pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks. The chill autumn breeze would tug at my hair and arouse my heartstrings, I felt free. Unleashed.

When I returned to my hotel room that night, my heart was still light and giddy from the interaction. My notebook splayed on the stained mahogany desk, I pulled out the fountain pen and began to draw his figure. Starting with his ruffled hair, moving down to his dimples, freckles, and lips. It was a poor drawing, sure, but in it I saw him.

I turn one page back to the sketch, the wooden chair hurting my back. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea, going through my old notebook. My era of writing was over, I had to accept that. With Maria and Jason, I didn’t have the freedom of escaping to Europe for inspiration. It was naive of me to think I could just return to writing with nothing more than a purple Paper Mate pen, and a drained imagination.

But when my eyes landed on the drawing, I was taken back to that day in Paris.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” He greeted me in a thick French accent. “What can I help you with?”

“Oh,” I responded, startled for a reason I could not place. The way the sun glinted in his eyes sent my heart aflutter immediately, and I struggled to find the words to respond. “Une pumpkin spice latte please?” I asked, as if it was a question. He laughed at my flippant switching of languages, for I did not know a lot of french at the time.

“I speak english well,” He clarified, and my face must have turned beet red. “But don’t worry, I get that a lot.” He ran his fingers through his hair subtly.

“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed quickly, scratching behind my ear before I realized it was my tick. I instantly pulled it down, pursing my lips to keep from laughing at myself. As it turned out, the barista was already chuckling. 

“What is your name?” He asked, simultaneously frothing my drink. 

“Caily, but people usually just call me Cay.” I answered, and after a moment realized it was only polite to do the same in turn. “What is your name?”

“Caily,” He tested my name out on his tongue, the way he pronounced it made it sound exotic. Special, even. “I’m Ace, and they don’t nickname that because it’s already so short.” He laughed to himself, and I can practically hear the soft chuckle of his breath from my place at the wooden table.

“Ace, like the card?” I asked him, twirling a strand of my brown hair around my finger. He nodded, and his unruly hair flopped gently to the side.

I watched his skilled hands as he gently topped my drink with cinnamon, sprinkling it between his two fingers. He winked as he handed me my drink, our hands briefly touching. As soon as his smooth hands ran over my own, he looked up and smiled. That was the moment I had drawn, the capsule of the moment.

I smash down the purple pen on the table, it all becomes too much. How can I dream of other men, when I have a husband at home? I cannot toy with such ideas as drifting away to Europe, when I have a daughter to care for?

“Mommy, are you okay?” Maria begins to thump down the stairs, pausing with concern when she sees my frustrated expression. I loosen my fist, clenched tightly by my side, and attempt to relax.

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m fine.” I subconsciously scratch behind my ear, before pulling my hand back in front of me. It’s a lie, but it isn’t like I can tell her I’m unhappy without causing her grief.

“What are you doing with my pen?” She spots the purple pen on the table, and rushes over to see what I was doing. Her face falls when she sees the empty page, devoid of drawings or words alike.

I sigh loudly, staring at the blank paper. “Mommy’s trying to write.” I admitted. “I used to write all the time.”

“Why did you stop?” Her question is innocent, she doesn’t realize the painful memories it brings on.

Rainy days, loud screaming matches with my mother ending in tears. Insurmountable debt holding me back from the world. Heavy on my heart, hopelessness when I realized I couldn’t be an author without having another job first.

That was when I gave up on my dream, the day that 19 year old girl gave up on writing in favour of shelter, food, and money. When I became what my mother described as a “smart, responsible, adult.” When the happiness faded into a numbness.

“Writing didn’t give me money, so I had to get a different job until I was back on my feet.” I explain, my voice caught in my throat. 

She pauses to consider what I said, then smiles up at me. “Well, you have money now. Start writing again.” It wasn’t a question, it was an order. A bossy 7-year-old she was.

“You know what, why don’t you help me write?” I prop her up on my knee, even though she was getting fairly large to sit on my lap. The teeth-showing smile that lit up her face makes my offer worth it. “What do you want to write about?” I ask her.

“I have an idea!” She exclaims, and I shake my head as I laugh at her. “Peony, a swash-buckling pirate who sails the seven seas!” The purple pen was off of the table in an instant, her tiny hand snatching it.

I watched as she doodled a picture - eerily like her - except with an eyepatch and longer hair. “Write about her!” She insists as she jumps off of my lap. “I’m going to go play dolls!” 

I wait until she finishes bounding up the stairs to pick up the pen, still warm. “Here we go,” I mutter to myself. I push the pen to my notebook, and begin to write.