The Purple Wave

CW: Abuse, swearing

“Oh my God! It’s happening,” Melissa Alton sputtered out in a breathless whisper, her well-modulated television journalist voice drowning in a wine-dark sea of nerves inside her. As she sat on the stool of the cedar dresser set, painted her favourite lavender, she bought from a rummage sale seven years ago, she felt her entire body tremble like a purple maple leaf in an autumn breeze.

She stared at the mirror and broke into a slight, polite grin, her facial muscles tightening as it settled into the familiar quiet little smile it had to memorise years ago, as if it were a choreographed dance. She studied her reflection and realised she, as her girlfriends put it, still had it. Her auburn, almost pansy-coloured waves cascaded on her shoulders; never mind the fact that some white streaks showed at the front. Her sapphire eyes were starting to gain back the sparkle that, once upon a time, made onlookers on the streets of Islington gawk. Her frothy lilac gossamer dress gave her an air of a tulip attempting to reach a cerulean sky.

However, there was once a time when Melissa….

“No, stop,” the normally poised newsreader yelled at the empty room. “Now’s not the time to think about…”

Buzz!

As soon as single name flashed across the screen of her phone, Melissa’s blue eyes lit up like the klieg lights of the studio she worked in.

“Brandon,” she whispered. The sliver of a smile that formed moments ago fully transformed into a beam.

Brandon Ryan --- Melissa’s best friend from the network, the editor who had immediately welcomed her on her first day on the job a decade ago by showing her the best places to get coffee, the shoulder she cried on when a partner she loved a lifetime ago snuck into the arms of another woman, the bearer of the hazel eyes she often stole a little glance at whilst reading her scripts for the past year --- had asked her out to dinner. Inside her, a million purple emperor butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she replayed how she’d imagined the night would unfurl like a rich sangria rug for a millionth time. She let her skinny fingers scroll through the photos in her mobile and select a photo of her date, zooming in on his soulful amber orbs.

She glanced at the mauve clock on her wall and winced. 5:30 p.m. Technically, she still had 30 minutes to spare but didn’t want to be late for her rendez-vous with the man she fancied. She dug through her make-up drawer for the tube of Lancôme’s L’Absolu Rouge lipstick she had been saving for “the unlikely scenario that Brandon…” She carefully removed the shiny black plastic cap and swiped on the creamy, raspberry-coloured wax onto her bow lips.

“Not bad,” she surmised as she regarded the image of herself on the glass. The luscious formulation on her mouth gleamed in the amber light of the violet pendant light on her ceiling, and she couldn’t help breaking into an expression of pure content.

“I quite like it. I look….”

Like a streetwalker!

It was only three words, buried in the indigo midnight of her consciousness, but as it crawled out like a monster hungry for jam-coloured blood, Melissa felt the little amethyst spark of joy in her extinguish in a moment. In her Islington flat, she was kilometres away from sea, yet in her mind, a wine-coloured tidal wave crashed upon her.

Once upon a time, the rich purples Melissa considered her favourite were the very thing that swallowed her whole.

The day she met Walter five years ago at The Aubergine Lounge, her favourite bar, his shirt was purple. Melissa had just finished a rousing rendition of Billie Holiday’s “Violets for Your Furs” when she felt a large hand slipping a piece of paper into her pocket. When she got to her table, she unfolded the small note to read “Walter Froome. 79606 66321” in mulberry ink. Before she could even ponder how that sheet ended up in her tiny hands, he swaggered his way to her table and introduced himself, his periwinkle eyes glimmering under the bar’s lights. As Walter broke into a wide, toothy smile, intensely stared into her sapphire eyes, and coyly talked about his love for Deep Purple, Melissa felt the hope of a possible love bloom in her like a wild iris. They would go out to dinner and drinks the week after, the lavender scent of affection flooding her senses the entire time.

The day she moved in with Walter six months later, the presents overflowing in the living room were wrapped in purple. Just the day before, Melissa and Walter had just had an argument over her beloved lavender dresser set, --- her asking to bring it over as the only piece of furniture she wanted, him forcefully insisting it would clash with his black furniture --- so when she noticed the display of plum-clad boxes, she couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. He explained it away as wanting to treat her as if she were born to the purple. As she tried to respond to say she just wanted an apology, Walter deeply smooched her mulberry-coloured lips. She would shrug and convince herself that perhaps, Walter just wasn’t good with words, the magenta warning signs in her head flooding her eyes the entire time.

The day Walter first screamed at her a further four months after, her lipstick was purple. By this time, Melissa’s lilac-coloured planner had been stripped of entries, apart from work meetings and interviews; every time she wanted to have dinner or drinks with friends, an issue with a client or a family member seemed to always pop up like a thistle weed on a patch of grass for Walter. It was her job to stay and listen to his tearful moaning, of course. One day, after coming home from an interview with a band called Orchid, she first heard it: a guttural yell paired with sharp pointing towards her berry-painted lips.

“Don’t cry, you slut! People would hear you. Are you fucking stupid or something,” he spat at her. “This is your fault for looking like a streetwalker, you know.”

She would tell herself that she was to blame for the outburst, the lilac handkerchief in her pocket flooding with tears the entire time.

The day he pushed her to her favourite dresser after an explosive argument over wedding colours, her bruises were purple. The day she packed her bags and snuck out the door whilst he was meeting with a client a week later, her suitcases were purple. She would move to the other side of the city, her ultramarine Mini flooded with the pieces of her entire life.

“Maybe, this is a bad idea,” stated Melissa as she quaked in her make-up chair. She grabbed a piece of cotton and doused it with micellar water. “I mean what would Brandon….”

Ding dong!

She gasped as jelly-like legs propped her up and walked her to the mauve-painted door of her flat. She took a sharp intake of breath as she unlocked the entrance.

“Hi, Brandon. Look, I know the lipstick….”

“Are you okay, Melissa,” he asked, concern scintillating in his hazel eyes.

“I’m okay. I mean I’m going out with you and….”

Without a word, Brandon took Melissa’s jittery hand in his and stroked it gently, starting from her glittery amethyst nails all the way to her blanched knuckles.

“We can just stay here, you know. I can make you coffee. I’ll grab the purple mug you like. How does that sound?”

“I…uh….I….”

“That is, if you want to."

Melissa took in the bright smile on her aubergine-shirted date and felt the wine-coloured waves swallowing her roll back.

“Yes, I’d like that, Brandon. If that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” he replied. “I’ll get your espresso machine running. Oh, and by the way…”

“By the way… what?”

“By the way, you look beautiful in your berry lipstick.”