colorblind (Wattys2015)

one: rain and roses

I had worn my favorite suit, a gray three-piece with a purple pocket square poking out, and so I was slightly put out when it started to rain. But the thunder made a nice accompaniment to the sterile white dryness of the art gallery that I was lurking inside. My father, a big hulking black man, stood next to me, glowering at the Monet on the wall.

"They have the audacity to call themselves modern, and a Monet? So pretentious. So pretentious."

Dad owned an art gallery on the Upper East Side called Lacey. When this one had been renovated from a hotel into a gallery, he dragged me along to check out our competition. So far he was very unimpressed.

I had to admit that it was very white, almost blindingly so, the way a hospital is white and devoid of all life. A miserable young man passed by me with a platter of crackers and cheese, and I took one. It tasted like a cotton ball in my mouth.

"Let's keep moving, Dad," I urged, but then the door exploded open and I lost my train of thought entirely.

Standing in the doorway was a young woman. There would have been nothing notable about this except that she had a lion's mane of wild black hair that flew untamed in the wind, attracting my attention. Her face was equally striking, a pair of mocking dark brows set over maddeningly blue-violet eyes and bright red lips. She wore a cream-colored coat that was untouched despite the torrent outside. A sparkling sapphire necklace hung just below her collarbone.

She was beautiful and horrible and I could not stop staring.

"Cecily?"

The owner of the art gallery, the thin, harried Mr. Simmons, hurried over to where she stood, silhouetted by the storm. She came inside just before he shut the door as he muttered in hushed tones.

"Cecily- on the night of our grand opening, no less!"

The girl- Cecily?- blew by him and disappeared down the hall into what I thought was the Aboriginal Art room.

"Catch you later, Dad," I said, already running.

"Where are you going?" he called.

I realized I looked ridiculous and slowed to a sedate walk as I entered the room. Sure enough, there was the entrancing girl, standing in front of a sculpture of a snake. Both she and the snake looked wrong, holding still, frozen in rock. She should be always moving, I thought, like the snake, always in motion.

I went to go stand by the sculpture but lost my nerve as she turned to see who had entered the room. Aboriginal art was not terribly popular, and we were alone.

"Don't tell me you find this stuff interesting," she said curiously.

Her voice was low and husky, the alto in a choir, the yang to the yin.

"You don't?"

"Come on, a giant rock someone made look like a snake?" said the black-haired girl.

My inner artiste was offended. "That rock is obsidian, a rare stone composed of dried magma found in Australia. And the person who made that belongs to an ancient tribe that worships serpents and their divine role. Yes, I do find this stuff interesting."

My father would have been proud.

Cecily shrugged gracefully and unbuttoned her coat. It slid off her shoulders and onto the bench in the middle of the room in one liquid movement. Said movement sent a ripple of wind my way: she smelled of rain and roses. Underneath her coat she wore a blue dress that was scattered with crystals and made her look like the Aborigine goddess of starry nights, I thought to myself.

"You certainly seem educated," she said.

"My father owns Lacey," I volunteered.

Her achingly blue eyes lit up like someone had held a match to them. The fire transformed her. Now the goddess was ablaze. "You don't mean the art gallery three blocks away?"

I nodded.

She clapped her hands like a child. "Oh, how glorious! Some excitement at last! My uncle owns this gallery."

My stomach twisted. "I'm sure my father will be thrilled to know that he's competing with a beautiful young woman for business."

Cecily turned, her face alight with wonderment. "Beautiful?" she mused. "Are you referring to yourself? Because you are quite beautiful. But you said young woman, are you a girl? No, I've got it- you're androgynous, or gender fluid-"

"I'm not a girl," I told her.

She blinked, and her feather-black eyelashes fluttered up and down. "It's quite all right if you are. I think everyone's just lovely the way they are. Boys, girls, somewhere in betweens, who cares?"

I couldn't argue with that. My head was spinning from the force of her.

"We haven't even been properly introduced!" she remembered, sticking out a small hand smooth and soft as ivory. "I'm Cecily Simmons, and my parents are dead now, but they must have hated me very much to have named me Cecily Simmons. That's all right, though. Everything's all right. Or is it all wrong? I forget. What's your name?"

Shaking her hand, I said, "Paul Wolfe."

"Paul Wolfe! Now there's a name if I ever heard one. Paul, you have such pretty skin. Like caramel drizzle."

I nodded, overwhelmed.

"Would you like some tea? I can go filch some from upstairs. We just live right above the shop," she continued blithely. "I wouldn't mind, not at all."

"I would love tea, but it's nearing midnight, and I ought to find my father," I said with great regret. I imagined drinking with her, talking with her. "It was very nice meeting you, Cecily Simmons."

"You as well, Paul Wolfe. For your sake I shall try to understand this sculpture." And she stared intently at it like the stone would suddenly produce some miraculous understanding.

I left her, reminded of a quote I'd seen on Tumblr, the only form of social media I allowed myself: I finally understood why storms were named after people.

Credit to @trapmahone for a great cover!