Short Stories

Devoid of Color

CATEGORY: ROMANCE

Beep, beep, beep.

I groan and slam my hand down on the snooze button, rolling out of bed. 6 AM. I trudge to my closet and pull on a set of normal clothes- a white button up shirt, a black pencil skirt with a matching blazer, and my black pumps. Another day of agony. 
After making my morning coffee, I walk to the largest window my apartment has- a floor to ceiling sliding glass door that leads to a tiny balcony. It overlooks New York Harbor and watching the sun rise from beyond the oceanic horizon every morning is the only thing keeping me from jumping off of it. I sip my coffee and sigh, wondering how the world looks in color. 
Ever since I was born, I've never seen color. My whole world's been black and white. But... isn't everybody's? I have to remind myself of that every day, too. I'll never see color until I meet my "soulmate." 

I, personally, think that's a load of crap. I mean, I look at myself in the mirror and I think, Who's soulmate could that be? Who could ever love me? 
I'm 26 and nobody, not once, has shown me any interest. I was always strange and I thought college would change that. I thought I'd grow out of my immaturity just enough, meet some random guy, fall in love, and go on with all that shiz. Who knew I'd be where I am now: a lawyer who's never lost a case. A lawyer who's given up on humor. A lawyer who is... a basket case with nothing better to do in life. 

I finish my coffee and set my cup in the sink. After gathering my things, I walk out the door and take the elevator to the main floor. The sidewalk is always crowded and I always try to push through it the best I can. I've gotten used to rude remarks and pushing people out of the way. New Yorkers, right?
I keep my eyes fixed on where I need to go- the courthouse that's a half mile from my complex. I shove and cut through people, angrily muttering to myself that it's always too early for this. Finally, I reach the doors to the massive courthouse that serves as my second home. My office is on the very top floor, almost identical to the height my apartment is at. I ride the elevator up and collapse into my office chair. I type furiously away at my laptop, taking care of matters here and there that decide to pop up and pester me. Some people ask why I don't switch professions since I'm "so miserable all the time" and I tell them that if I were to do that, 9 years of college go immediately down the drain. Besides, what other job would I find to keep up with my apartment and the cost of living? So, it's not an option.
After the day flashes by with me doing the same old thing, I pack my things up and ride the elevator to the first level. I glance over at the security desk and notice the head of security flirting with some woman. He waves at me and she smiles at me and I obtain the urge to ask what color my eyes are. I don't, though. Who'd have time for something so trivial? I press my lips into a tight smile and wave back, seeing my way out the door. Ah, the sidewalk again. I silently wonder if it ever feels tired of people walking all over it. No, sidewalks are inanimate. Focus on important things. Like, getting back home without being trampled all over. 

I summon my energy from the dark depths of my black and white soul and push my way onto the sidewalk. I bob and weave and dodge people's arms and shouts, doing my best to ignore the dirty looks my uniform earns me. I tilt my head upwards and focus on my complex in the nearing distance. Step, step, step. Push, push, push. Shove, shove, sho-

"Hey!" an angry voice cuts through my thoughts and I look down, seeing a man with some dark liquid spilled all the way down his shirt. He's no native to New York, otherwise, he'd pick himself up and silently curse my face on his way.
"What gives?" He asks, helping himself to his feet. He stands directly in front of me, up against the wall of whatever building we were passing.
"What do you mean?" I ask and then shake my head, "Get out of the way."
"Not until you apologize," he glares at me. I catch his accent and am easily able to pinpoint his region- southern America, where the tea is sweet and the 'folks' are kind.
No thank you.
"I'm not apologizing, country boy," I snarl, "get out of my way."
"Not happening, city girl," he retorts.
"Move, or I'll-"
"You won't do a thing."
"I'll-" I stomp my foot and shove my hand into his chest, sending him a few steps backwards. The moment my hand collided with his chest, something happened. I don't know what it was, but something happened.