𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐌 ☂ diego hargreeves

snapshot #oo1

Two Years Ago

(Give Or Take A Day)

There was a bachelor's degree on the wall and, for once, Isha Murray had the life she wanted. Or something close. Whatever.

Isha straightened the frame on the dulled beige wall which stank of tobacco and stagnant pine cleaner, a heavy scent that made her think of Social Workers and wide, pitying smiles. She took note of every chip in the paint, like the first stars at dusk. Eudora would probably pick out each one of them without a word and sometime later, casually suggest redecorating with her. Liven the place up and all. Isha would agree, knowing her ex roommate would pay for the paint and the office equipment and probably a round at the bar at the end of the day. Isha would smile and not say thank you because Eudora would gloat.

Besides, they'd have to do all that work on one of their mutual days off, however few of those there were, essentially not allowing Isha the one day of peace she got every week. She probably wouldn't even remember to say thank you.

"Murray, your four o'clock is here."

Speaking of.

A shot of pure excitement and joy ran through her veins and she knew what it would look like in the mirror - clouds of blue and yellow and green clashing and merging into maybe a pleasant mint. Maybe that's the color the walls should be. Pale mint, like her favorite ice cream.

"Send her in!" Isha shouted back and turned to her shabby desk, hastily folding the top of her takeout container and placing the box in a plastic bag out of sight.

She hardly had any time for lunch earlier and scarfed down her lo mein like a ravenous animal. Now, she was using a napkin to wipe her mouth as the door crept open and tossed it toward the bin by her new lamp, watching it bounce off the rim and land on the dull hardwood floor. She scrambled to grab and, with a little too much purpose, dropped the trash into the plastic can.

She was still crouched when her four o'clock spotted her on the floor. At least Isha could excuse her clumsiness to Eudora; they were familiar enough that it might've been endearing by now - like those family sitcoms where flaws were only minor inconveniences, if not lovable. Lovable was not Isha's speciality but clumsy and quirky could be faked and amped up for appearances.

No use. Dora knows better.

Isha glanced up through her mess of black hair and any confidence she had dropped with her smile.

Eudora Patch was not at the door, but a bargain bin SWAT team member with a sour, unwelcome expression on his face stood there like a petulant child being punished. Panic became ice water pouring down her spine, making her whole body tense and tight and on the brink of something worse.

This man, who looked just as uncomfortable as Isha felt, didn't meet her stare - thank god. With unwelcome surprises came anxiety and with anxiety came an acute unwillingness to make eye contact. This right here was exactly why she would never be an actual therapist. This was why she unloaded boxes from trucks five days a week despite the pretty document on her beige wall.

She side-eyed him, a muscle working in his stubbly jaw.

He walked to the worn blue couch and speeded back to the door, almost going back through it. He stopped like she said something he was just catching. There was a tension in his back like a caged animal. A wolf, maybe, cornered and feral.

He turned back, a hard, closed stare behind brown irises. Her stare darted away, less at his demeanor or something equally dumb like her sudden awareness that he was not bad looking at all. (Although, selfishly, she was hoping for someone a bit more homely.)

What she found disconcerting was the cloud of deep reds and oranges swimming around his head like ink in water. Easy enough to decipher - rage, fear, and even shame. There was something else there, though - a color she never had a name for because she knew she shouldn't be seeing it. Something more than she could describe. It was deep and saturated and ran through the other colors like veins under pale skin.

The colors were too bright and the clouds were getting thicker and she knew her mistake already.

Before she could search through the fog of her own brain for the chemical names, he eased onto the worn blue couch and Isha wondered if the stranger expected a landmine in the cushion.

He glanced at her like all this was an entirely normal reaction in front of a stranger. "Can we get this over with?"