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Fantastic Watercolors

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Abrasive white, sharp and sterile, mixed with shards of muted yellow. Voices cry out jubilantly, and then halt, as if daring to hope. Then, finally, the smallest voice of all, the color of gold and turquoise, royal purple and the brightest tangerine: a baby's cry.

It was a love affair originally, the first page in a thick, musty novel. Happiness bordered the text, calligraphy in the corners of their lives. It swam around in curlicues and bubbles of loveliness. The couple was more like a pair; they were not something that could be separated. Their names were spoken aloud as one word, combined in slur of perfection.

Deep down, she had known all along. She knew with certainty, just as she knew her own name, that it would happen. There was a constant, peculiar feeling in her stomach at all times around him. The feeling gnawed at her and ate her from the inside out. As she continued to spend time with him, the feeling increased. It was a feeling of pure joy. The world spun around him like a carnival ride, the landscape in her vision splattered across like a child's watercolor painting.

It was wild, it was chaotic; it was messy. Her nights were fantastic and illogical, filled with sponatenous adventures that consisted of Thai restaurants and escapades to the laundromat on the corner of the street. Taxi cabs were their hideouts; the city was their playground. They were two young nobodys, free to live because no one knew their name. The lack of responsibility was exhilarating. Each breath of air was new and delightful. The pair relished each other. The nights were long and extraordinary while the mornings were short and full of light.

It was an inconspicuous Wednesday morning that the peculiar feeling in her stomach grew into something more substanital. It was now an entitty of its own, taking over her body and devouring her entire being. Then again, she had known it all along. The orange juice in her blue plastic glass tasted sour.

She insisted to him that she was not hungry at lunchtime. The sushi he had brought to their apartment made her nauseous and she covered her nose with both hands. The dress she wore that day was his favorite dress. It was short, skimming her legs mid-thigh, and flowery. It hung loose on her angular body, softening her jutting joints and harsh silhouette. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his grip firm. He rocked her back and forth like a small child as they stood in the kitchen. She began to cry and he understood.

Months flew by in a new brand of flurry; weeks and weeks were marked on the calendar over the sink, jars and jars of vitamins were consumed while the small extra room in their apartment became a pastel yellow. A new responsibility settled over the pair like a dust cloud falling back to earth. He found a job in the newspaper and circled the listing with a yellow highlighter. An interview placed him in an office while she flitted around downtown, hemming and sewing clothes for others. They were not the same pair they had once been. The charming couple in their circle of friends that they saw in photographs from years past had disappeared. They could no longer dash around the city in a vast game of hide and seek. Bills stacked up on their kitchen counter.

After the calendar had displayed nine different John Deere tractors, the peculiar feeling appeared in her stomach one afternoon in January. A mug of hot cocoa sat in front of her on a Mount Rushmore placemat. She called out his name. Panic. Her voice rose unnaturally and the kitchen chair clattered to the floor as she rose. Heavy feet hitting the floor. A suitcase thrown together, its contents random.

The nurse in the emergency room looked at them tiredly as the pair rushed in. Her right hand was placed on her swollen stomach protectively. The nurse guided them through the hallways as if it was routine. She whisked away to a room in a wheel chair while he was stranded behind, his heart beating madly.

His vision became sharper and blurrier at the same time. His palms were clammy and his hair was mussed. He stood next to her bed and gently moved her hair out of her eyes as she struggled. There were people surrounding them, coaching her, yelling, encouraging. The noise was all in the background. Yet again,they were two names combined, the only thing in the world that existed.

The hospital room spun and twirled like a carnival ride, and a peculiar feeling appeared in his stomach. It grew in anticipation and anxiety. Then, the peak moment arrived; her face was contorted in concentration and hope.

The feeling burst in his stomach into a thousand splendid balls of light, leaving his body in a fountain of joyous laughter.

The room grew silent for a moment. A lone cry echoed throughout the room. To him, it was like the music he used to dance to with her. It represented everything they were. That cry was the sound of their names slurred together to form one.

He looked to her. He was elated. Their eyes met. It was simply another moment for the two; they were extraordinary together. She raised her eyebrows and smiled a small smile. He smiled at her, but it wasn't enough. He was jubilant. He was ecstatic. He pressed his eyelids together, squeezing them tightly. A small tear escaped.

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Mykindapeopledontcarewhatyouthink said...
Dec. 3, 2010 at 3:15 pm
It's amazing how all of your work is marvelous, but you only have one article published.
EleanorRigbysGospelofPeace This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Jan. 18, 2011 at 5:48 pm
Thank you for the comment:) but I do have more than one piece published... I actually have four.
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