Green

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky.

Red had been having trouble sleeping. This was a problem as she felt that her habit of going on the roof at midnight to see the night sky—to see that there was something floating in the air that seemed oddly familiar to the Northern lights, soothed her as closely as it unnerved her. She tried to have poetic thoughts of the strange feeling that the dark purple clouds dancing gave her, to no avail. She felt something was coming, as sobering as it was.

As the early morning dawn hit, she switched the lighter curtains to darker ones to blot out the harsh light in from their bay window in the kitchen as it looked green. It was green from the trees, she suspected. Summer was just beginning, and Red hated summer. She started to put water in the kettle for Marisol, putting it on the stove, setting it to high. She liked the light in the morning, it felt raw, honey toned at times in their small space in Paris, and now, it was green—-her favorite color. Green meant many things to her.

Christmas. Her father stringing up lights. Her mother making endless types of pumpkin and apple pies (with different crusts and different patterns)and homemade sugar cookies with real buttercream icing on top. The green tree in the living room with all the tinsel and ornaments, shining like a beacon of magical, beautiful, luminous light. They didn’t celebrate Christmas, Marisol and her. Marisol was raised up in a highly strict, Jewish upbringing, in a Kosher home. You did not eat meat with dairy. You had separate dishes for different food groups and separate cabinets for everything. To eat pork was shameful.

Green also meant Marisol. She had deep, gorgeous, shiny green eyes. Red loved her eyes; so expressive and always laughing. She would sing in Hebrew to her whenever they would cook together, and Red would play with Marisol’s dark curls as she cut up the garlic.

“Don’t get my hair garlicky, libling!” Marisol would laugh.

Red would only laugh along with her, kissing her cheek.

Recently, Marisol had been receiving calls from her friend Marcel. He had been requesting a dinner or lunch date between all four of them. Marcel had a wife named Madeleine who was five years his senior.

“Marcel is your old colleague, oui?” Red asked. Red still did not know much French. Only conversationally at best.

“Marcel is an old friend. He wants us to check out this new place. Intimate space with small plates. We will go this Saturday for lunch.”

“What is it called?”

Marisol saw Red brushing her hair from their bedroom. “The Raving Bull.”

“I don’t particularly care for those type of places, baby. It’s too …trendy!”

Marisol got up and went over to Red in the bathroom. “I know, mi amour, but let’s go just this once. Please?”

Over her bare shoulder, she could see Marisol’s eyes peeking over at the mirror. They both looked at one another.

“Marcel is an old friend, huh? A good one?”

Marisol nodded. “He seems to be upset.”

“You’ve been so tired from work and everything —-don’t you wanna rest this weekend? You always give so much to people..” Red put her hand on Marisol’s shoulder softly. Their eyes met, but then Marisol looked down.

“I have to. If I don’t help those crying out for help…. who will?”

Red sighed. She didn’t know how to answer that; Marisol always helped everyone and did everything she could—-even at the expense of her own mental health.

She just nodded, kissing her on the side of her mouth. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Red was thinking of that conversation as she started tea and breakfast. Marisol was still asleep.

She wondered about Marcel. She wondered if her wife and Marcel had ever kissed. Made love. She pictured it even though it caused her pain. But, in the end, she thought of it as nothing more than misplaced jealousy. Marisol and her had been married for three years, and had dated for two before they had become engaged.

“Together in Paris, yes?” Marisol would croon, referencing Red’s favorite cartoon movie Anastasia. “How did you know that you’d find me here?”

Red laughed, holding onto her waist. They kissed chastely, their noses touching. “I knew because this is the most romantic place in the whole world!”

“You just wanted to live in a charming little apartment and be quiet, huh?” Marisol teased.

“No. Loud!” Red yelled with a rambunctious grin. Marisol laughed along with her.

“It was horrible without you —so long while you lived in America. I laid about my bed dying waiting for you to come and save me…” Marisol said dramatically.

“You were okay!” Red answered. “We are married and I’m here to stay!”

But she knew Marisol was not okay.

Marisol would have long bouts of anxiety and feel incapable of doing anything. And then, in bursts of incredible energy, she’d act extremely productive and do almost too much.

“What did you hope to find out here, again?” Marisol asked her.

Was it to promise their never ending love? Why else bring it up? Did Marisol feel insecure of their relationship—of Red’s true feelings for her? Of how she has to pick up all the pieces of their lives after a stressor-induced panic sets in—-wherein Marisol feels trapped in her own darkness. And Red is alone, scouring the remnants of her heart to carry on without fear. It is hard to find it at the time, she realizes, but—-somehow, she makes it.

“I wanted to study art. I went to Italy. I went throughout Europe.”

Marisol nodded. “You are the best artist, my dove.”

Red smiled, but She didn’t feel it. ‘I haven’t painted a Goddamn thing in years,’ she thought, her heart pounding slowly in a dead, thumping gasp—-as though the malaise of her existence was finally giving in the meaningless feeling she’s always carried in her step. ‘As if Marisol would know—-she sometimes seems like a zombie to the world,’ she thought, her eyes stinging from trying not to cry.

All the canvases were still blank.

All the notebooks of large all media type paper were full of nothing. Covered in dust. She grimly wondered if dust could be the star media for her new piece; it could only settle once no one had paid any attention—-and dust covers everything.

Red filled up Marisol’s tea cup with the hot, boiling water, the tea bag inside, feeling like she was a bit like that hot water.

Nothing until she soaked up something else.

She made breakfast. She made pancakes, eggs and bacon.

She cut up a grapefruit and sprinkled sugar on it. That was for Marisol. She didn’t eat bacon.

Living in a foriegn country had its moments. The landscape was beautiful and very inspiring. The people seemed to be a part of the landscape itself; forming a strange, nebulous, live, ever-changing art showcase that was steeped in loneliness and longing and old romance.

She wanted to paint, but she didn’t know what.

She got out her book. Her favorite book.

Her mother gave it to her before she passed away a few years ago. Her father soon followed. They were very close and her father was too heartbroken to carry on.

Her father had read this to her as a young girl, almost as a cautionary tale—-“don’t go chasing things that don’t belong to you,” he would say in a dark voice after the book was finished. They’d laugh, of course, but the lesson seemed very serious in her mind. It stayed with her.

The artwork on the cover of the book inspired her.

She drew Marisol’s green eyes cascading like a ghost light, a shadow hanging, lurking inside their kitchen window. Green light twinkling on the kitchen table, waiting for it’s demise. Or it’s freedom.

But, as Marisol woke up, she hid the painting.

“Breakfast is ready!” Red said.

Marisol nodded. “Thank you. Good morning, baby.”

They kissed. Marisol touched her cheek and caressed it gently and Red shuddered.

They ate breakfast together and sat in silence.

Marisol seemed sad.

“You sure you are up to going today? To the lunch?”

Marisol nodded, sipping her tea.

“If not, we can reschedule.”

“I shouldn’t, he’s counting on us.”

Red sighed, “Why?”

Marisol shrugged. “Baby, I’m not feeling well enough to explain. I think he’s going through things with his wife.”

They finished their breakfast in silence.

Red felt even more separate from Marisol as the day went on. They got ready for their lunch date.

“I heard this place serves bull. But, they have vegetarian options, too.”

Red rolled her eyes, “Ugh. I won’t touch it. Bull. Gross. I told you how I hate these trendy restaurants!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I picked such a trendy place,” Marisol said with a defeated look.

Red frowned as they left their home. “Thank you.”

Marisol looked up at her in surprise. “Huh?”

“I mean thank you. Thanks for giving me different experiences! I’m so stuck in my ways…”

Marisol laughed. “That is sweet.”

They drove to the restaurant.

It is a small place tucked away in downtown, by older residential buildings.

Once they saw the couple, Red smiled and waved but felt immediately like something was off.

They were too cheery.

“Bonjour, madame, comment allez-vous?” Marcel said.

I nodded. “Bonjour! How are you?”

Marisol leaned in toward the couple.

“My wife, Red,” she looked over at Red and laughed softly, “She does not speak much French!”

Marcel and Madeleine nodded in solid affirmation. “It’s okay! We know English!” Madeleine said.

Red looked at Madeleine. She was very petite, a small, pear shaped frame. But Red noticed more than anything about this oddly smiling woman was her eyes.

Madeleine’s deep blue eyes were large and heavy.

Much like a Keane, Big Eyes, painting.

They were standing outside the restaurant, not going in.

“How long have you been married?” Madeleine asked them.

“Tw-three years,” Marisol answered.

Red looked at her a bit surprised at the slip—-of course they’ve been married for three years. There was some time they had had, ‘space,’ from one another. But that was only a week or two.

There was some idle talk of everyone’s job and education. Marisol was going on and on about Red’s paintings.

It made her feel guilty for hiding the one she created earlier that morning.

Red realized she wasn’t paying any attention to the ongoing conversation when she hears this(like a car screeching to a sudden halt in front of her feet):

“Well, apparently,” Marcel started with a frustrated look, “I don’t know how to make love with my wife anymore!”

“Ah, that is rich! You complain all day about the meals I prepare and what I clean and how I do it. You think this little double date will silence your mouth? Or correct our passionless intimacy?” Madeleine said, her voice hushed, her cheeks red.

“You are just a scared little girl who cannot grow up!” Marcel sighed. He is much taller than her, by two and a half feet, Red noticed. The large black hat upon his head seemed to be watching them all—-and his eyes are fixated on his wife’s discontented expression.

It feels like to everyone in a silent, shared thought that they are the only people on this particular corner of town. It is quiet. Too quiet. No one is driving. The inside of The Raving Bull looked like a hushed party stuck in time. The lights are dimmed inside; the sun is shining too brightly outside.

Marisol takes Marcel’s hand and then Madeleine’s.

They both stop talking.

Marisol takes their hands and places them on top of each other.

“You two made a promise to care for one another. Do you see that behind all the bravado and painful words, there is love?” Marisol whispered. Red gasped a small breath, her heart that had once felt like a deep, pounding thud—-now a light, fluttery feeling that made her whole chest warm.

Madeleine’s big, blue eyes somehow grow larger. Marcel’s brown eyes grow smaller.

“She’s not in love with me. She has a hard heart. She is cruel,” Marcel said.

Madeleine laughed. “Cruel! Hah! What of you?! And your dark looks… I see you… when you think no one is looking—you cry. And you don’t want anyone to see it. And when I cry, you mock me. You are stiff and only until much later do you ask of my feelings.”

Marisol looked lost. Red was completely flabbergasted by the whole scene laid out in front of her, feeling more like a spectator than a part of it.

“Our marriage is falling apart.”

‘Who said that?’ Red wondered. She looked around and saw Marcel and Madeleine shrug, looking at her with a silent, sympathetic expression. It was not them.

It was Marisol.

Marisol was talking of their conversations. How they have lost their intensity and vigor. How they have lost their life. How listless everything has become.

Or has it always been this way?

They don’t have much in common. No Christmas. No green anything—-just sadness.

Red opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly, a large, bustling creature was running, turning a corner right into the four shocked and estranged individuals.

It was a bull! Red immediately went in front of Marisol and tried to shield her from its wrath.

Madeleine pushed Marcel far away from the restaurant, eye to eye with said bull.

No one had screamed.

But it was something that made them all almost collectively die of a heart attack. Marcel’s leering black hat had fallen off in the chaos and had blown away. Red noticed curiosity that the hairs on the bull did not move in the breeze.

But…there was no breath. Madeleine couldn’t feel it. She could only hear it. The raspy, throaty, hot breath that sounded like a physical sensation pressed against her.

Just then, a man dressed in a suit ran out. It was the manager(it said so on his suit along with his name).

“Ce n'est pas un vrai taureau c'est une image 3D!!”

Then, the very real looking bull faded into a tattered, green light.

“Green!” Red said aloud.

Marisol took Red’s hand.

Marcel took Madeleine’s hand.

“I’d say this lunch turned into an unexpected way. I’m sorry,” Marcel said to the group.

They all nodded, leaving, not eating anything.

The couples parted ways and went home.

One couple went home and shared a light lunch; proceeding to have a long afternoon of ravenous, carnal lovemaking. They spoke of their lonely past no longer haunting their present.

The other couple shared a green light painting and shared a dream; it was composed of healing and passionate dialogue. Red’s nightly visits to the roof stopped and she only rested close to her wife, the airy and slightly ajar window next to their bed showing a slight crisp of that once vivid expanse of purple billowy cloud—-now just a whisper like a soft kiss. They celebrated Christmas that year.

And the bull framed itself in such a way in the bright sunlight, that it almost felt more real than any couple that went inside the hatched doors of the newly opened restaurant.