A colorful song

“And so, it goes…” Martin’s tongue stretched to the right corner of his mouth, parallel to the tie thrown over his shoulder. As he placed two more cards on the house, its shadow shivered on the table glass. “I’m self-impressed. Look at that.”

Orso didn’t pay attention to him. Pacing by the panoramic window of their office on Purple Avenue, palms joined under his nose, he was running the calculation again. It worked. It worked perfectly. His neat fingers pianoed on the window frame and the sun sparked on his watch face. He admired the sporadic light for four seconds. Four seconds only, never more. 

“Smashing it…” Martin’s rabbit teeth pinched his lower lip as another card tipi found its spot onto the pyramid. “7min, 32 sec.” 

Martin clapped his hands and chuckled as the whole structure collapsed. Beat-boxing, he headed to the fridge at the back of the room and grabbed a red carton bucket. Tugged it into the micro-wave and ouched as he collected his feast. His hair was greasy; his green tie didn’t match his yellow glasses and his trousers needed a serious wash. Observing the scene, Orso couldn’t say whether he’d miss the mess of his co-founder when it's all over.

“Mmm. Sho good.” He licked his fingers one by one.

“What’s that?”, Orso asked sniffing a syrupy smell of burnt.

“Fried chicken and waffles. Hibiscus, matcha and maple sauce. From Monday - I like them tender.”

Orso ducked his nose inside his sweater and refrained from pointing out that crisp couldn't possibly be tender and that from Monday meant from four days ago. Instead, he refreshed his emails. Still nothing. How long could that possibly take?

“Any plans for tonight?”, Martin asked wiping his mouth with a cactus-patterned napkin.

No, not for tonight. Tonight, Orso would make sure all worked according to plan. Once done, he’d go back home and sleep for two weeks straight. Catch up on a few documentaries, visit his family and prepare for business school start in fall. Two years. He’d network and apply to the 23 venture capital firms he had short-listed, provided their returns would still be decent by then. If not, he’d have to tap into his second list of funds. He’d be 32 at that point. He’d then start fencing and buy a motorbike. Save for a second house in Cinque Terre, Italy, then … wait. Something was missing. There was something else on that list. Never mind, he’ll check it out tomorrow morning. Orso pressed the space key of his laptop twice. Still nothing. 

“You?”, Orso asked after a while - maybe twenty minutes. His zoning out in Martin's presence had become a habit he tried hard to fight - unsuccessfully.

“Catching a plane in two hours.”

Orso frowned.

“To where?”

“Don’t know, will figure on spot.”

For some reason, that answer made Orso smile. But only for a bit. For Martin soon drew out his Game Boy Color and a colorful song started to play. Orso hated that song. He had hated it since they were roommates in college. He shook his head at younger him who couldn't trust Martin and was overwhelmed by his mess. And yet knew he would go far and was the one to bet on. He thought of recent him who tamed that chameleon and grew comfortable with him. Martin was unparalleled. He was resourceful and chaotic. Colorful and pragmatic - good at engaging with people and, although Orso hated to admit it, he was memorable. A mix of traits that threw Orso's self-esteem on a roller coaster from time to time yet kept him on his toes. Through their seven years together, Orso had learnt and grown more than he could possibly quantify. He also now knew what he was good at - focus and vision. Martin had brought in the rest and their duet was a powerhouse. A smile tickled the corners of his mouth.

From business angels raising eyebrows, to designers missing the point, developers wasting their time and marketers messing it up - they had been through it all. Orso tilted his head backwards, looking at the anthracite pipes above his head. Research had been wild and troubleshooting fickle. He sighed at the prizes they had received and the incubators they hadn't impressed. A story, with ups and downs. Martin is right - that's how it goes. And here they were now, selling the business. Sailing towards new horizons. Orso laughed silently, hands crossed behind his neck. He had horizons, Martin only had fog. 

A xylophone sang and Orso rolled his eyes. Two tracks defined Martin: his Game Boy Color anthem and the xylophone ringtone he had composed at lunchtime on a rainy day in March. Of the two, Orso couldn't say which most annoyed him - at least the xylophone was amusing. Martin picked up. Orso leaned back forward - was that the bank? Martin caressed his curly hair and arranged the elastic of his tie. Had Martin forgotten to pay his rent again? 

“Meet you there. Ciao.” 

Orso frowned. 

“Who was that?”

“Mary-Susy.”

Orso double frowned. 

“Mary-Susy, the lawyer’s intern. Green eyes and short hair.", Martin mimicked the glasses and the length of her hair. "She sent you the contract.”

Orso's eyes grew narrower - he was a sieve for that kind of details.

“Wasn’t that Angelo?”

“Nah, Angelo sent the draft you reviewed on Tuesday by email. Mary-Susy sent the post version - the one we signed.”

Right, now he remembered. Something pinched the inside of his chest. “Are you telling me -”

“Nooo, it's nothing. Took her to an indie place downtown for a coaching session last week." Martin reached for the cookie dough tube in his green Freitag bag. He held it vertical above his open mouth and pushed the creamy paste down into his glottis. "She likes me and she's helpful."

“You’re dating someone from our lawyer’s office? Is that what you're telling me?”

“Career coaching. In an indie place. Downtown. That's what I'm telling you.”

“You just said “meet you there”.”

“Doesn’t mean I will.” Martin shrugged and grabbed back his Game Boy Color. He laid down on the burgundy sofa and crossed his ankles on the armrest.

Orso closed his eyes. Hot air fell out of his contracted nostrils. He preferred not to imagine what could have happened if an investor had seen him with that Mary-Sue in that Indian place. He pushed his lower jaw forward - while he was running around fighting details and time, Martin was providing "career coaching" services downtown. Two invisible cymbals smashed his ears. He felt guilty last week for planning to cut ties with Martin after the sale, for he knew there was no point in staying in touch. Meantime, the guy was having fun with an intern. He grabbed a pen and twirled it with each of his five fingers. Well, that confirmed what he had suspected from the start - Martin and him would inevitably part soon. His stomach tickled. Should he say something? He grabbed another pen and drummed silently on his desk. Should he, should he not? Oh, man. The drumming stopped and he raised his head. That was it. The grungy coconut painting Martin had brought from a secondhand store was looking straight into his soul from the mint wall in front of him. That. Was. It. The missing item in his achievement list was dating. Orso froze and screened through the greasy hair, the plastic sabots, the chicken bucket and the cards on the floor. Could he possibly be envious? He rubbed his eyes. The silly song was still on. He needed a break.

“I’ll be right back.” Orso tucked his hands in his sweater and ducked his head into his hoodie. If he couldn't see Martin, that meant Martin was somehow already gone.

The milky caramel soothed his tongue and the sugar bit his teeth. He licked his lips slowly. The wind was warm and charged with ocean salt, the leaves danced to the beat of the city. He should have brought his sunglasses, he never wore them. He gulped another sip. A red-haired-and-dressed girl entered the building and, for some reason, she smiled at him. He raised his eyebrows, surprised. He showed back his teeth, realising, after she had entered the building, that caramel might still be decorating his teeth. He sighed - whatever. He dove back into his extra cream beverage and marvelled as it soothed his stomach. He closed his eyes as the wind caressed his freckles. The sun showered his swollen eyelids and pierced through his open sweater, caressing his plexus. His shoulders eased and the top of his head bent slightly forward. He felt light on his knees. The cup was still warm in his right hand and he made it roll gently - he took a deep breath. How did he let resentment grow and how did he lose sight? That did not look like him. He was wiser. He took another gulp and drank down his own essence. It was all there. He didn't need more. Just to relax and savour the fruit of a long journey. From now on, like Martin, he would go more with the flow. As he took a deep breath in, this new goal of his blended with his essence. He smiled and opened his eyes. A cream butterfly flew by.

“Are you leaving already?” Orso asked returning into the room.

“Need to pack.”, Martin replied, throwing paper planes into the bin. The urban ventilator breeze he had put on, certainly to fly his planes, mixed with the colorful song on repeat in the back.

Orso looked at Martin, he wanted to say something.

“You look weird. All good?” Martin's crooked teeth gave him a witty smile.

Orson didn’t know where to start so he shook his head and showed his hand. Martin grabbed it and patted his back. They might have hugged, but Orso didn't know for he focused on the pat. A pat from someone he knew he would never see again. Someone who could have been a peer but was different. Someone who pushed him to new places and had no idea.

Martin walked out.

The ventilator purred from left to right and right to left. It had replaced the silly song, that now somehow was a soundtrack for a gone period. Orso smiled - he might actually miss that song. He paced around the office taking mental pictures of every relic of the journey he, they, had been on. The office was neat and fresh. He didn't know Martin was also skilled at cleaning.

On his computer screen, his bank account was still the same. Orso drew out his checking list and went through the items again with his green highlighter. He had reviewed each page of the final draft of the contract five times. He and Martin had signed the contract eagerly yesterday and the investors - new owners of the business - had signed it beforehand. Their lawyers had received all the documents yesterday. They had scanned them and sent them back to all parties. Martin had stored them. The payment order had been placed yesterday and it would take one day, i.e. today, for everything to be cleared. Money should hit the screen today bringing that chapter to a close. Everything was right. Martin had certainly already received his money, he wouldn't have left otherwise. Alright. Orso decided to call it a day and check back his bank account tomorrow.

He collapsed on his grey sofa with his Nikes on. A woolen blanket covered him, and he mumbled a thank you to whichever of his flatmates had thought of him. Life was good. And he could now fully dive into dreamland. There, the sun sparkled on his watch and fried chicken wings chased him down Purple Avenue. The smiling girl from the building, now in blue hair and jumpsuit, waved as he removed his sunglasses and winked. Caramel steam wrapped them into a cocoon, and she asked about him. Sitting on a grungy coconut, he told her everything. His life, Martin, the sale. She was impressed and he liked her for that. She was a lawyer. Not an intern, a proper lawyer. She smiled at him. She beamed. She laughed. She was funny, she was pretty. He pushed her hair behind her ear. Her eyes sparkled like the sun on his watch. She said she had a lawyer’s joke for him. A joke about a guy who had checked five times the draft of a contract and signed a different one. One that denied his ownership in the company he was selling. One that attributed all his shares to his crafty mate. No shares, no money.

Her laughter became a xylophone. A xylophone that played a song. A colorful song that played on repeat.