Forgetting You

CHAPTER THREE

SARAH

Breakfast was as always silent, but in an enduring kind of way. I didn't have to speak, laugh or smile forcefully, because the table only consisted of two.

The patio was open and the table was set. Our usual, coffee, eggs, toast and nuts lay on the table with a single rose; in a small glass type vase. This time, a petal fell off as we took our seats.

It was sunny, with a slight breeze that brushes past my face. I smile, this type of weather was as always, my favourite.

I feel the rush in my legs to run out across the lawn; the tingle in my toes as I walk barefooted on the wet grass.

I feel eyes on my neck and I look towards Ali. He quickly looks away, tapping incessantly at his phone. Sometimes, I feel as if he can read my thoughts; he can suss out how I feel in a second.

He stares at me for a while and puts his phone on the table. I take a sip of coffee and scan the lawn by the flowerbeds, the gardener was still spraying at the flowers.

'Doesn't it bother you?' I turn to a relaxed Ali, both elbows propped on the armchair and his hands cupped together. It looked as if he were a therapist; I almost laughed.

'What does?' I pick at the eggs on my plate, the squelching sound, repulsive.

'That I sleep with other women.' Ali studies my face for any sort of reaction, to which I smile, earning me a frustrated glare.

'If your talking about Claire-'

'How do you know I was sleeping with Claire?' He pulls a brow at me in victory and I feel like laughing in his face. If he wasn't so cocky, I'd actually pity him right now.

I pull out my phone, scanning the latest news and it's there in front of me. In. Big. Letters.

I set the phone down in front of him and reel back into my seat, I have clearly won. It feels so good to watch Ali's face turn tomato red, his hand reaching to scratch his neck nervously. A phone buzzes loudly in his pocket and he takes it out.

'Shit. It's Dad.' He groans and clears his throat. The chair screeches on the wooden floor as he hoists himself up. He chugs down his coffee and sets it down on the table.

'My friend has invited us for dinner this evening, please be ready by eight.' He grabs his coat, avoiding my eyes and walks out, hanging his head in shame.

***

The blank canvas stares at me. It's mocking me really, the way it's 4 sharp corners point at me accusingly, as if saying 'It's your fault you can't draw. Give it up. You don't have it in you.'

I get up and pace back and forth the room, I pick my hair up and pack it into a tight bun. I throw my boots off and feel the coolness of the wooden floorboards against my bare feet.

I look at my colour palette, there's green and black, green and black, and green and black. I have no other colours I want to use. The sealed neon colours glare at me from the corner of the room and I give them an awkward grin.

I take a look at my portfolio case, stacked on top of a high shelf. I haven't pulled it out in a year. I completed it in just a week but I hadn't  slept or ate anything that week either. Ali was a goner when he found me in that state, I fainted on the workshop floor. Green paint splashed all over the floors, and on my denim dress.

It's begging to be opened. But I'm afraid. I feel eyes on me from everywhere around the room. There's no one there, yet I feel anything but alone.

I'm itching for a drink, my throat feels dry and I'm biting my tongue to keep myself from crying.

Happy thoughts.

I reach up for the portfolio and haul it down, dust spreads everywhere and I sneeze a couple of times.

My fingers shakily remove the canvas from the portfolio and I replace it with the blank one on the stand.

I can feel my palms itching but I pay no attention to it. The air feels stiff again.

I sit cross legged on the stool; gluing my eyes to the canvas. I need to let this go but I don't know how to. I want to run yet at the same time I'm addicted to this feeling and I can't move.

I'm in a different place now, at a different time and the only thing I can think of is the pair of green eyes in front of me.

***

Our seats were already booked, it was at the back of a grand restaurant. The type that had the fine leather couches in red and black, and the glass tables that were already set with red wine. 

My eyes catch a painting on the wall; a naked woman spread out on a long table with a dozen men seated, holding forks. Her face is replaced by a large red dot, thick black locks coming out from it. It wasn't a type of painting that should be displayed at a restaurant, I was glad I was sitting with my back facing it.

Ali taps at his watch, repeatedly. I eye him, he's wearing a black suit and that's not like him at all. He hates wearing black.

I was cool with meeting his friends when he wanted me to, I left the workshop early just to get ready on time for him. He was obviously hurt by what had gone on at breakfast time and I thought that would be a good way to make it up to him.

I turn around and face him, my mouth open ready to speak. Before a word comes out, I see a couple approaching us. I can't make him out, his head is lowered. I squint my eyes and as he lifts his head, the world around me stops.

It's him.