Fortune Cookie

one

The first time I was inside a hospital (besides my birth, of course), I was four, and my sister jumped off the second floor's window with her pajamas and a blanket tied around her shoulders-- she was certain that a cape would enable her to fly. People attributed it to her strong imagination, and today she is an artist that paints mostly in red, still complaining about her painful ankles.

When I did it last year everyone said I was delusional.

I am not delusional-- I am a lawyer.

I used to be a lawyer, at least, until under the influence of a bottle too much of beer, I jumped from a window.

As I opened my eyes after I hit the ground, I realized in the aftermath of my failed attempt to make it to my house without walking, that my life is not what I wanted them to be.

And at the hospital, when I was going through the Psych Evaluation, I realized I had no idea what I want my life to be.

The walls of my house were originally white, but the white paint started peeling when I first moved, so I decided to chafe the paint off all in one day after I quit my job.

The next day I bought bright yellow paint.

The week after, I painted them a light blue.

This week I painted them for the sixteenth time, in purple. When I painted the last patch of red, all I could think of was the color my bath water were when I was fifteen.

On my way to buy a new color, because the purple is much too bright, I stopped by the grocery store. Buying lemons, avocado and cereals- with barely any sugar because my father is diabetic and fear has been etched into my mouth at the mere age of five, making it so I'd never be hyperactive on sugar- I contemplate my life choices in the form of colors.

Black is much too dark, I mused as I pick up full wheat bread, pacing slowly.

As I pick up butter I consider cream color again, but it is much too boring.

I crouch to the low shelf to reach out to my favorite brand of pasta, and when I stand up I see a familiar face I have last seen over a cup of coffee in a hurry.

Maybe bottle green.

Darker than black eyes stare into mine, desprate and scared as they used to be, my first instinct is to reach out towards him.

But I stop.

His full lips twist into a sad smile, one that does not reveal to me his crooked tooth, and my lips stay pressed, as though disappointed.

His hand raised, before resting on the shopping cart, grasping tightly. 

"I love you."

His words pierced the silence, and my heart. His hoarse, deep voice quivered under the weight of the words, and almost broke. He stayed there, silent and un-moving, and I was flabberghasted.

"I..." my own voice broke, lost. 

"I know it's shit, but through it all, I love you."

I just look at him, shocked.

And suddenly I know one thing for sure; Defintely bottle green.