Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Page 14

  “I honestly don’t know how blind people do this,” Jeff said. “Every little thing requires so much attention.”

  “They say our greatest quality as humans is our ability to adapt,” I said, unsure if I was trying to convince Jeff or myself of its truth.

  Almost immediately after I made my sweeping comment about adapting, I was challenged with the simple task of feeding myself. Using my index finger, I slowly poked around my plate until I memorized the orientation of my food: steak to the left, grilled asparagus up top, and potatoes to my right. The thought of having to orient myself every time I sat down with a plate of food was enough to make me want to only eat finger foods for the rest of my life. Scooping potatoes was the easiest because when I stuck my fork in I knew something would stick. The veggies were far more difficult to discern and after the first few futile attempts I decided to just use my fingers. To cut the steak I brushed my fork along the outer edges of the meat, moved the fork inward to where I guessed was about a centimeter, then cut. I raised my fork toward my nose, smelling pepper and charcoal, before biting into the most sumptuous, slightly-too-large piece of steak I’d ever had.

  I took a gulp of wine. The darkness made it hard to concentrate on anything but going blind. Laughter, chatter, and the clanking of utensils was louder than a typical restaurant. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the experience, but only because they knew that once they stepped outside the doors, they’d see again. So, while I loved what Opaque represented—a heightened tasting experience created by the blocking of one’s visual sense—I wasn’t on the same tasting adventure.

  “You’re not saying much,” Jeff commented.

  “It’s loud and unless they’ll let us stay all night I need to concentrate,” I lied.

  Jeff laughed, “But it’s good?”

  “Best meal I’ve ever had,” I said. This part was true, but I was on the fence as to whether the food was made better by my actual inability to see it or by the new experience of dining in the dark. “What do you think?”

  “The food is great. I’m on the fence about the experience,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, it’s interesting because they have successfully kept me from using my visual sense, but I’m still distracted—it’s just by sounds rather than things I can see,” he said.

  “Right. Like instead of noticing a woman with too much plastic surgery I notice pitches in people’s voices.”

  “Exactly, and I think we’re annoyed by the same laughter,” he said. He was right. Somewhere to my left was a high-pitched cackle. “Do you think blind people recognize voices the way we recognize faces?”

  “Not. If. I. Talk. Like. This,” Jeff said, using a robotic tone.

  I laughed in spite of myself. Jeff was never one to take himself too seriously, and I found comfort in his presence.

  With over a decade of friendship between us, we had tons of stories to rehash. Jeff brought up the time we worked the Houston Street Fair together and spent half the time eating corn dogs instead of selling them. I brought up the time we tried to build a tree house with sticks, twigs, and string—we were seven.

  As we reminisced, I noticed that Jeff and I finished the entire bottle of wine, plus a glass each of Moscato, which came with our dessert. We were drunk.

  As we stumbled home, we laughed hysterically about how angry the super-nice receptionist had gotten when we accidentally started to walk out the door before signing the final bill. I thought it was hilarious that Jeff was embarrassed because the receptionist didn’t act like it was a mistake but rather that we were trying to dine and dash. Genuine by nature, Jeff always got flustered when someone accused him of wrongdoing. In turn, he fumbled his words, and it made him seem like he actually was guilty.

  When we got to our room Jeff opened the door for me but grabbed my arm as we stepped inside. He closed the door behind us, pressing me up against it in a deep kiss. Finally. I pulled his faced toward me, kissing him back with a hunger I hadn’t felt in years. He unzipped the back of my already loose-fitting dress. My gown fell to the floor and I pulled off his shirt as he unzipped his pants. I felt my heartbeat quicken and hoped he wouldn’t notice as he moved away from my lips and traveled down my body.

  When he came back up to kiss me again the gaze on his face was so intense that it rendered me speechless, and when he tilted his head and leaned down until his lips met mine, I felt my body surrender to him. Picking me up by the waist, he carried me to the bed, my legs wrapped firmly around his hips. Our clothes lay in a heap on the floor as he set me down gently. He hovered over my lips briefly, before moving lower to kiss my neck and breasts. Letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I pulled his face up from my neck and kissed him deeply—I wanted to be connected to every part of him, an inch of space between us was too much. Jeff moved inside me. I wasn’t sure if it was lust or love, but at the height of intensity my toes curled and I had to move my hands from his shoulders to keep from digging my fingers too deeply into him. Jeff finished soon thereafter, collapsing down next to me before rolling over to pull me into the curve of his naked body.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I breathed, letting myself sink into the comfort of his embrace.

  We fell asleep soon thereafter.

  The next morning, I carefully slid myself out of bed and into a robe, grabbed my paints, and pulled a chair up to the window (the balcony was too small to paint on). Everything about Paris felt like a dream and I was afraid that if I didn’t capture the moment quickly, I’d lose it when the sun rose and reality set in. Quietly setting up my easel and pouring out bags of pigment, I mixed the colors I wanted and sat back to fold a crane out of paper while formulating a new interpretation of Midnight in Paris.

  By tilting my head to the side, I worked around the thickening RP line, which had become central to my vision. Doing my best to concentrate on my brush strokes, I changed the perspective to an omniscient one looking down from the sky. At the top of the Tower, I painted a couple holding each other as Jeff and I had. Using the space on the canvas to create distance, I painted another couple dancing far below. Dabbing my brush in the Mars pigments I’d picked up in India, I made the Eiffel Tower light up with a bright yellow hue against the deep blue night. The foreboding darkness in the first painting was all but gone and what remained was a kind of whimsical fairytale romance. I had no idea what any of last night meant, but I knew that, at least momentarily, it felt like love. While I moved my brush across the canvas, I thought about my parents and wished there was a phone line to the afterlife. I wanted to know if our stories were similar. I wanted to giggle and tell my mom how amazing it felt to be here with Jeff. Hey Mom, do you think Jeff and I could be as happy as you and Dad?

  “It’s incredible Aubs, better than the last one,” Jeff said, rolling out of bed in his boxers and heading for the coffee maker to grab the pot.

  “Thanks,” I replied, smiling.

  When I heard the sink turn on and the sound of his toothbrush scrubbing back and forth, I realized I hadn’t yet brushed my own teeth and I quickly looked around for gum. I wanted him to think I woke up with fresh breath.

  “It’s early,” he remarked, spitting into the sink before gargling and washing off the head of his toothbrush.

  “It is. You should go back to bed,” I whispered, my voice not yet ready to function at full volume.

  Without a word, he took the coffee pot, now filled with water, back to the machine. With no gum in sight, I quickly darted into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth, and followed him back over to the window.

  He studied the painting carefully, and I worried he might read too much into it. I had been working on autopilot and wasn’t exactly discreet about who the gentleman was.

  “Are my shoulders really that broad?” he asked with a smirk on his face.

  “Would you prefer dainty shoulders?”

  “No, no this is great. You made me look rugged and handsome,” he remarked, regarding th
e tall, bright-eyed guy with chiseled arms in Midnight in Paris II.

  I rolled my eyes and laughed as he kissed me on the cheek and walked back to the now-full coffee pot to pour each of us a glass.

  “To traveling,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.

  “To traveling,” I smiled, clanking my mug to his.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Solitude

  “HELLO? Earth to Aubrey…”

  “Huh? What?” I said, snapping to. Jeff was showing me a map of the Coliseum.

  “I asked where you wanted to start.”

  I shrugged. “Wherever you want is fine with me.” The truth was, I hadn’t stopped thinking about our rendezvous in Paris.

  Since sleeping together, things between us were incredibly awkward. On the quick flight from Paris to Rome, I put my head on his shoulder instead of sitting perpendicular to him with my feet tucked underneath his thighs. He sat stiff for a moment, and then rotated his shoulder with a casual laugh. “It’s hard to type with your head there,” he said. I moved. We sat in silence for the remainder of the plane ride, the walk through customs, and the short cab ride to our hotel. When he finally spoke it was outside of the Coliseum, and only to ask about our itinerary.

  “Maybe we should get the English audio guide,” he suggested. I agreed.

  I popped in the earbuds but didn’t press play. Sound of any sort blasting into my ears was the furthest thing from what I needed. All I wanted was silence. I looked up at the Coliseum before entering it. Was it huge? Yes. But it was also dilapidated and broken—like a national treasure that no one cared for. Even the arches, which were the fundamental reason the structure was so revered, were disappointing. Aside from the multiplicity and repetition of them, I saw nothing particularly interesting about the Coliseum.

  Once inside, we were herded along the cement corridors with so many other tourists that I couldn’t see a foot in front of myself. Tall enough not to have his face inches from the back of a sweaty body, Jeff wasn’t quite as trapped as I was, but he looked like he was struggling. I tried to take his hand to soothe him but his fingers remained slack. I let go.

  We passed through an archway and emerged at the center of the arena. Unlike the Staples Center or any modern arena I’d been in, the Coliseum showcased a walkway the length of a football field before it opened into a half-moon stage pushed to the far side. The spatial design made it clear the ancient Romans revered their entertainment. Sadistic as the games may have been, the architecture of the space suggested a high regard for those who fought. Standing at the center of it all, I imagined the roar of crowds instilling a sense of pride into the athletes as they stood in the limelight.

  I followed Jeff as we climbed to the top of the arena for a bird’s-eye view, but the farther away from the stage we got, the less excited I became. Jeff wandered a few hundred feet away from me and I quickened my pace to catch up. When I reached him, my stomach grumbled.

  “You want to grab some lunch soon?” I asked. I needed a change of environment; we had spent nearly two hours in the sweltering heat looking at the exact same arches we’d seen coming in earlier.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said.

  “Dude, we haven’t eaten all morning,” I said. He didn’t respond. “You feeling alright?”

  Jeff was silent for a moment before he said flatly, “I’m fine.”

  I took the hint. At least, for a few seconds. “Look, if it’s about what happened in Paris…” I started.

  “It isn’t,” he snapped, and I knew that it was.

  “If that’s what you want…but I’d rather just clear the air,” I pressed, not at all wanting to clear the air, which was quickly becoming muddy with smoke.

  Silence.

  A hundred thoughts raced through my head but nothing came out of my mouth. Like a shaken up can of Coke, my emotions festered beneath the surface just waiting to explode. I wanted to yell at him for letting me believe there was something between us and I wanted to kick him for making me feel like more of a fool than I already did. Actually, I wanted to kick myself for not knowing better.

  “It’s not always about you, Aubs.”

  I was prepared for regret, maybe even embarrassment—but hostility? I turned away from him and waited.

  “I’m sorry,” Jeff finally said, cryptically.

  “Tell me the truth,” I said, turning back to him. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

  He hesitated and let out a long breath. More silence.

  I dropped my gaze as my heart sank to the pit of my stomach. “You regret it,” I whispered, just barely audible. Maybe it was masochistic, but I needed to hear him say it.

  He said nothing. He looked exhausted—like he’d already had this fight in his head and was just now going through the motions with me. Then, just as I was about to walk away, he said, “Veronica e-mailed me.” The way he let the words hang made it seem like they should have answered all of my questions.

  “When?” I asked, staring past his knees at a block of concrete and keeping my eyes glued there. I physically couldn’t look at him for fear that I’d cry.

  “Yesterday.”

  “In Paris?!” I was stunned. Actually, stunned was putting it lightly. I was furious, or maybe devastated, which for me manifested as rage anyway. “After our night together?”

  “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, making me almost feel sorry for him.

  “What did she want?” I stammered.

  “I guess she saw all the pictures I’ve been posting on our trip and she just wanted to say ‘hello’”.

  Bullshit, I thought.

  “It’s crazy…after all this time?” he said, as though he wanted me to agree with him. I said nothing. “Back in Jordan, you said you weren’t looking for anything serious,” he said, looking pained.

  “I’m not.” I remembered what I’d told him when he questioned my attraction to Atef. “I just didn’t expect the ‘nothing serious’ to be with you.”

  “Well…” he trailed off. The silence was deafening. “I still care about you, Aubs. I always have.” His words were like ice-cold water being dumped on me in the middle of a blizzard.

  I felt his hand on my forearm and jerked away saying, “Don’t touch me.”

  “Aubs,” he started.

  I cut him off, “I need to be away from you right now.”

  “Uh, I’m not ditching you in a foreign country.”

  “Do you want to be with her?”

  “I don’t know. Look, I’m really sorry. It’s complicated.”

  “It’s not that complicated,” I retorted.

  “We were supposed to get married,” he said.

  “Just forget it,” I said.

  “So, what? You’re just gonna run away for another ten years?”

  “What?”

  “You’re so quick to write people off.”

  “Yeah, I am,” I said as I spun on my heel and left. With cloudy eyes I stumbled through the crowd trying to process everything that had just happened. Dismissing the curious stares as I passed by people, I somehow managed to find an exit and wandered aimlessly through the streets of Rome.

  Until five weeks ago, Jeff wasn’t a part of my life and I was just fine without him. Wasn’t I?

  A bright building with robust columns caught my eye, and as I got closer I realized I had stumbled across the Pantheon. From what I could remember, the Pantheon was full of artwork, the perfect escape from my situation.

  Inside, I walked down a short hallway before emerging in the famous dome. A streak of light, brighter than any I’d ever seen in an interior space, pierced diagonally across the room from a hole in the ceiling. From where I stood, the opening was about the size of my palm. An English-translated pamphlet I picked up at the door explained that the oculus was uncovered and, during storms, water literally fell through it. The architects of the Pantheon designed a drainage system into the floor below specifically for rainwater.

  Priceless monuments and artwork of historica
l significance filled the room, yet dirty, polluted rainwater was allowed to fall in here as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.

  At midday, the sun’s rays were reminiscent of religious postcards I’d seen of Jesus descending from heaven, and even as a person of no religion I found the experience quite spiritual. Dust particles filled the beam of light and, as I reached my hand directly into it, the sun’s warmth soothed me. For a moment I was connected to something larger than myself, and the idea of an external force watching over me or taking care of me eased the burden of fear, which had become a constant companion.

  Past the streak of light was the Madonna del Sasso, a sculpture of Mary holding baby Jesus in her arms with one foot on a rock. Beneath her lay the remains of Raphael. He was the lesser-known of the holy trinity of Renaissance painters—third only to Michelangelo and Leonardo. A pioneer for painting women as they were, voluptuous and full-bodied, Raphael embraced the natural features of the female figure and painted them with realistic proportions. He was one of the few painters in history to admit to being heavily influenced by his contemporaries, and found success because he incorporated the things he learned into his own body of work. That I happened past the place housing the tomb of Raphael, one of history’s most influential artists, was significant because his model of studying and interpreting before creating was similar to my own.

  The Madonna del Sasso was lit by two recessed lights carved into the upper part of the niche. At first, the bright yellow light bothered me because it cast shadows onto the sculpture and altered the color of the stone. I cringed at the thought of Michael standing before it.