BURN (Wattys2015?)

plans

The revolving door swings open, and three pairs of eyes jump up to look at me.

The two older women stand up, and run their hands over their skirts, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles. They look nearly identical, in the same business suits, polished nails, plastered and blinding smiles, and perfectly aligned hair. It bothers me. I prefer slight imperfections. Not to mention the awkward competitive tension between the two, who both try so hard to pretend that they're friends, yet they both hate each other so much.

I go to the first woman in the pale yellow suit and hug her. I don't like her society look, I prefer when her hair is in a frizzy bun and her clothes are wrinkled. I prefer to see the age spots and crinkles in her face, instead of having them hidden in the pounds of makeup. But, I still love my mother.

The second woman (in a pale pink) kisses me on the cheek, saying just how excited she is for all of this, and just how delighted her daughter is. I force a smile on my face. I can't stand this woman, no matter how hard I try. I've spent years "getting to know" her, but I still have no idea who she really is. 

The third woman, peeking out from the shadow of her mother, grins broadly at me. She's but a thin wisp compared to the other two, but she radiates pure energy. I kiss her on the cheek. She's in a pretty blue sundress, the one I said I liked. I smile at her. 

My mother holds her arms out, bracelets jingling. "We wondered if you would ever make it! You're late, as usual."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, sorry, traffic was heavy."

"That's okay!" The girl in the blue sundress squeaks eagerly. I smile at her again, and she melts. Something tugs at my heart. Guilt? Maybe. "What's important is that you're here, now, right?"

I nod, and we all sit on the plush white couches. I feel like I shouldn't be sitting on a couch this white, because when I get up it might not be as white and innocent anymore. But I feel that way about a lot of things, so.

"We were just talking colors." The woman in pink, Cynthia, croons. She raises a brow like she has a secret that she can't wait to share. Her brow barely lifts, the plastic surgeries making her forehead tight and immobile.  "Since you're an artist, we thought to consult your...professional opinion."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Oh, well," I chuckle awkwardly. "I'm not really a professional--"

"Oh, come on!" My mother chastises, frowning. "We wondered about red and blue. Since you'll probably have a summer wedding--because that's when most everyone would be able to attend--we figured that red and blue would be...patriotic? Cynthia has a contact in the industry and says that's the upcoming color trend."

I bite my lip, sighing. I turn to the girl in the blue sundress and smile again. I feel like I'm bribing her with it. 

"What do you think, Margo?" I ask, my voice soft. She opens her mouth to speak, and blushes, glancing at her mother. 

"Well,  I--"

"Margo loves the red and blue!" Her mother says firmly, shooting the girl a look. I frown, and rest my chin on my hand.

"I hate red and blue. I think they look awful together. They just don't work together at all. The only reasonable time for them to work is on the Fourth, and that's a stretch in itself." My voice is cold and hard, and the three women blink in surprise. Margo grins sheepishly, looking down at her slender hands. 

"I like soft colors," she whispers. "Maybe a lilac or a baby blue. Even a yellow, if it's sweet." Her eyes sparkle as she gets the courage to look up, dazzled. "Maybe even all three."

To her credit, my mother smiles warmly and places a cold hand on Margo's knee. "That sounds lovely." She says, her voice dripping like honey. 

Cynthia grunts in indignation, clearly flustered. "Well--we'll see, Margaret."

I look up at the ceiling, and it's ornate design. I wonder who painted it. Was it a "professional" artist, or just a blue collar designer? Sometimes I feel the world does an injustice to people. People like Margo. 

The room shrinks and I tug at my collar, finding it all the sudden hard to breathe. I don't want to be here. 

I stand abruptly, interrupting a conversation about flowers.

"I have to go." I choke, backing away. I trip over the rug, and again I wonder about the person who wove it. Were they paid for the beautiful design, or did some uppity wine-type come haggle for a cheap price? Or was it made in a factory? Did the factory workers enjoy their job?

I don't know why I all the sudden think about these things. My mind blurs and then refocuses on the idea of freedom, of getting out of that stuffy building.

I start for the door, and I can hear the whispers and 'wait's. But I ignore it, slamming into the glass door and pushing my way out onto the cracked sidewalk and noisy street.

I breathe in the smell of gas and cigarette smoke. 

Better.