Bulls are Colorblind

The last thing that I thought I would run into in a bar two states away from my hometown was my past.

Dillan Carmichael grins boyishly at me from across the room, his blond hair a halo around his face. Beneath his pleasantness, though, he’s all shark teeth and sirens in the night. His anger lurks beneath the surface of his handsome exterior, waiting until you feel safe enough before it rears its ugly head.

And blind to this, a beautiful woman can’t help but to take a dive. She’s wearing a sequin mini dress that hugs her figure flatteringly, her hair tied up in an intricate bun that allows curls to brush her cheeks. She sashays up to him, long legs and lip gloss and utterly entranced by his presence.

I linger in the background, downing one of my shots as I keep a silent eye on them, wanting to speak up but not knowing how to whisk her away from him without saying our history in front of everyone. I can’t tell if the burning in my chest is from the hastily swallowed vodka or my locked up trauma threatening to break free.

Instead, I resume the drumming of my fingers on the bar counter. My cowardice eats me up inside, twisting my stomach into indecipherable knots, and I attempt to chase it away with a large sip of my cocktail. The burn it leaves behind, not diluted by the orange and cranberry juice, is stark. I stir the drink, it shimmering like captured sunset, with the thin black straw before I turn to check on the stranger, to make sure she’s okay and to maybe see if I can get her alone. But they’ve disappeared.

“You’ve never left my thoughts,” Dillan suddenly says from right next to me, startling me so badly that I slosh my drink on the counter. His eyes are half-moons as he surveys me, ignoring the woman’s attempt at a flirtatious hello. Those eyes are as deep as an ocean, and I am ready to drown myself in them, literally.

His casual observing of my figure enrages me, stoking a fire I didn’t even know I had anymore.

“Curious,” I surprise myself by saying with barely concealed venom, “considering the fact you’ve never graced mine. I like to keep it clean in there and not track filth about.”

The woman that followed him is watching me now. Her smile has dipped into a frown, her dimples slinking out of sight. Awkwardness and confusion is clearly beginning to creep into her eyes.

Embarrassed warmth heats my cheeks and the back of my neck, but I hold my ground, refusing to take my words back.

Dillan’s smile, once charming, widens until it has a slight razor-sharp edge to it, predatory. “Nothing wrong with being filthy once and a while,” he hums.

He is not, and never has been, ashamed of waving his red flags in front of me like a matador, and despite my reluctance I was still dangerously attracted to those flags like a bull--endlessly angry even as I drew nearer, darkly intoxicated with the dance.

People commonly think that it’s the red color that attracts the bulls to the flags but it’s not the color at all. Bulls, like me, are colorblind--unable to tell a red flag from a green one. What brings them charging towards the matador is the way they move the flag.

I wasn’t even aware that each person I was attracted to was waving red flags in the wind. It wasn’t the flags that drew me, though. It was the way that they moved, the way that they navigated the world and twirled it and me around their fingers. I had spent my fair amount of time in the hospital due to injuries that were supposedly lovingly dealt, having drifted from man to man of the same type for far too long.

I always believed in the good of them and trusted that the flags whose colors I couldn’t see were green. But I already knew from experience that Dillan’s flags were red. Maybe his flags were green once upon a time but they had been dyed red with my blood and who knew how many others.

“I’m Faline,” I introduce myself to the woman. “Trust me,” I push myself to say past the fear that is gripping my neck and my thundering heart under his gaze, “He’s dangerous. I’d leave him alone.”

Her eyes show hesitance as she flicks her gaze from his charismatic and handsome visage to me, a tired looking woman hunched over her drinks. “Um, I think I can figure things out for mys--” she says, clearly ready to dismiss me for the chance to secure such a seemingly magazine perfect man.

“I’m not interested,” Dillan coolly dismisses her, not even bothering to give her a glance, as his eyes burn into me, “this is actually my girlfriend. She’s just too polite to say.”

Stunned at his declaration, I stare back speechless and shivers run up my spine at the words, both fearful and longing. The fear outweighs the latter, though.

At his declaration the woman awkwardly says, “oh”, in a small voice, her confidence having drained as she then retreats, weaving her way back to her friends by the billiards table.

“We have not been together for two years, Dillan,” I finally am able to say after my voice resurfaces. My heart is squeezing so painfully in my chest I think I’m about to have a heart attack. The hairs on my arms are standing at attention as adrenaline pumps through me.

“Sweet Faline,” ignoring my words he murmurs, lips grazing my ear, as he grabs my waist and splays his fingers across my stomach in a way that makes me shiver, “I’ve missed you so much. You’ve never left my mind, pet. You know I only hurt you because you deserved it,” he insisted, “I promise it could be good again if you are.”

“Get out,” a strong voice suddenly slices through the thick air between us, “you’re not welcome here anymore.”

“Excuse me?” Dillan says lowly, forgetting to turn back on his charm so his voice still sounds threatening, like the beginning of a storm. Recognizing the undertone to his voice, fear rolls through me like thunder.

Both of us turn to see a woman standing behind the bar counter. I don’t know how long she has been there. Her hand is tightened on her cleaning rag so much I can see the veins in her arm. Her eyes are furious. She is beautiful in her righteous anger, her beauty only heightened by the fact that she is doing what I wished for years I could do myself--stand up for myself.

“You’re not deaf,” she says, “You heard exactly what I said.”

“I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” Dillan backtracks, suddenly again the charismatic man I wished he was at heart. His hand tightens painfully on my stomach, nails digging into the sensitive flesh there. “We’re fine.”

Her eyes are blazing with anger as she hisses, “I heard what you said to her and you can take your abusive bullshit somewhere else.”

He starts to protest, opening his mouth to let honeyed words talk him out of the situation like he always would but she cuts him off quickly.

“I am the owner, creep,” she said, slamming her hand down on the bar. Other patrons quickly looked over to see the commotion and seeing her upset, the regulars turned their protective, warning eyes on Dillan. “Get the hell out and don’t come back here. You’re not about to use my bar as a hunting ground.”

“Leave, son,” one man adds, cracking his knuckles violently, “don’t make us have a problem.” Words of affirmation sounded in support, customers rallying behind the woman they clearly have a fondness for.

I keep my gaze down on the table, my heart beating in my ears, as Dillan gives my stomach one last painful squeeze before his touch disappears. I can hear the sound of his boots walking out of the now quiet bar.

Only when the chime of the front door sounds does the talking start again and someone turns the music back up.

I realize I have been holding my breath. Panic rises in me, relief contradictingly buoyed on it, but my therapist’s reminder guides me, a clear bell in my head:

Breathe in, 1 2 3 4, Hold, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7, Exhale, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8.

I do this technique until the ringing in my ears quiets, and I’m present again. Slightly shaking, I peer over to see if the woman who stood up to Dillan is still there. She is, and she’s looking at me, worry creasing her brow.

“Olive,” she suddenly answers a question I never asked.

“Um, no thank you,” I reply, not a fan of olives and especially not for my drinks, only to be met with laughter bubbling up and out of her, a beautiful melody that brings a confused smile to my face.

“My name,” she clarifies, a beatific smile on her lips, her eyes crinkling at the sides, “My name is Olive. Faline, right?”

I nod.

Olive works behind the bar, her dark, long braid swaying along the small of her back as she wipes the countertop. She seems to be waiting for something, her body angled slightly towards me expectantly.

“Thank you. We’re not together. Haven’t been for two years...I tend to have a lot of trouble picking men,” spills out of my mouth, fueled by vodka, cocktails and shame.

“I can see that,” is all she says quietly.

“Maybe, then,” she follows cautiously before catching my lowered gaze, dark eyes boring into mine, “what you need isn’t a man.”

At first I think there is an undercurrent of something inviting in her voice which makes me flush with heat but it is gone as quickly as it appeared.

“At least, not men like those,” she then says after my silence, dropping her own eyes. “I saw you try to protect that girl. That was brave.”

“Not brave. I was terrified,” I admit quietly, fiddling with my hands.

“That’s why it was brave,” she says, soft hands suddenly touching mine in a show of solidarity and maybe something else.

A beat of quiet passes between us before I notice her shirt said something but I couldn’t quite catch the words. “What does your shirt say?”

“Oh! This old thing,” Olive laughs, once again causing a smile to tug at my lips, “It’s actually my gardening shirt. I got too carried away and had to rush here and couldn’t change. I’m a closet fan of bad puns. It says ‘I’m Quite Frond of Green’,” she shares, almost embarrassed about it if the blush complementing her cheeks said anything. The gray shirt must be a shade of green and it has a large fern as the backdrop for the joke.

“What’s a frond? Sorry, I’m not the biggest on plants since I can’t really see them well,” I say, rubbing my neck sheepishly before ducking my head to take another sip of my drink. I’m not sure why I’m suddenly so nervous around her.

“What do you mean?” Olive asks, starting to wipe the spill underneath my glass.

Now it is my turn to blush in embarrassment. “I’m, I’m colorblind. I can’t tell red plants from green plants,” I say, “so I always just feel like I’m missing out. It’s just all gray. I don’t really have a concept of green, never have.”

“Well, Faline,” Olive smiles, leaning across the counter, so close I feel my heart begin to race and my stomach squirm, “How about I take you to the botanical garden, and I’ll tell you the colors of each and every plant and what green looks like to me.”