Jamie
What About Rosa?
“Guys, come down for some crumble!”
She picked a different brown and shaded the outer walls. It was already brown. She added more. The reference photo of Capoliveri was brown. “GUYS! Come down now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
She flopped onto a chair in the dining room. Joseph followed behind. Mum’s apple crumble sat at the center, wisps of smoke curling above. The polished fork in her hand pressed into her callus from the stylus. Mum was cleaning the kitchen. I just feed you kids, that’s it, she was about to say.
Upstairs, the brown stone walls zigzagged across the screen. She spent the rest of daylight cleaning them up. The evening non-traffic spread outside her window. Endless brown blocks filled her lungs.
She wandered back into the kitchen, beating the evening roll call. Dinner tonight was with Rosa.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Oh, I made braised chicken, you know Rosa likes it.”
Second time in a week. Her mum passed her the rations for Joe and herself on pretty china plates.
“Enough?”
She nodded.
“Yes, mom, I’m fine. Talk later.”
“What about Rosa?”
She took off.
Her room caved under the smell of braised chicken. The bookshelf, her desk, sheets, wardrobe and everything felt so chicken. Worn clothes hung on the extra chair in her room. Others chillaxed around the laundry hamper, which was never big enough to begin with. Ugly sheets were rolled up at the center of her bed, like mum’s huge pot of bubbling chicken. She collected the stray piles of chicken research and chicken clothes.
Her slender frame drifted in circles. Cream sheets were changed and homeless things chucked. The bin vomited bottle caps and holey underwear. On the shelf, bits and bobs fit new spots. The books lined up tall to small, mahogany chess pieces peeked at her from the top. Silver dust shavings didn’t perfectly fill up the spaces. The braised chicken got cold and less intrusive smelling.
The morning traffic, a Wednesday, was not bad. She ran out of eggs; she took her breakfast outside. The radio played a female’s rendition of My Girl. Her semi-smooth coffee was not hot.
Brain fog sucked. She hated it. That book – Absolute Brightness?
The sun rolled casually across the sky, and people trickled in and out.
She took her time at the store. A few yards of crimson and emerald green cloth sat on a low shelf. Neatly lined spools of coloured thread occupied a wall, patterns upon patterns of strings and ribbons hanging like frayed toilet paper. The buttons and sequins drew her into little plastic drawers. She located the cloth she had come for near the back. She paid, and drove back.
Nicholas broke in. “This isn’t what I asked for… I needed emerald green.”
“Yeah, here you have it.”
“Emerald green, darling, not this.”
“If this isn’t emerald green, then what is?”
He jabbed at a greenish-brown binder. “Didn’t expect this kind of mistake… don’t have time for this.”
She removed the folded crimson cloth from her bag.
“This isn’t crimson!”
“Nic–”
“Could you please have it refunded? Not sure if you can even…”
“Very funny, Nicholas.”
Nicholas was a funny guy. The coloured cloth business, odd words spoken at an odd time, like borrowing a neighbor’s bathroom. Brand new board games were stacked on the bottom shelf, each one of them bought with her friends for nights in. Cards Against Humanity, Pandemic, the Resistance… Uncased, the plastic wrap gleamed its Target gleam. Her friends had moved away.
The sun had begun to set, drawing long shadows across the room.
Her mom called for the table to be set.
On weekends, the Ford was hers to take. Joe was out today, too. She lounged at the couch. The television, a plate of breakfast grease.
It was too soon for another one. The pompous round man on TV seemed to detect her lunch. No news about how the projects were going. No news was good news. They were out of her hands now. Her hand slid to the wooden coffee table. What if she met a boy at the stables, nearby?
She’d lean her arm against the fence.
How’ve you been doing?
Pretty good, yourself?
Well, it looks to me like we both have a bit of hay fever, huh?
He proposes getting coffee together. She accepts with a cool air. Maybe a scraggly man in his fifties is drifting around the stables, who can’t care less if she drinks coffee.
She picked a good spot to park when she got there. There were many to choose from. An unoccupied counter idled, a chandelier above it. She didn’t ring the bell.
Out in the open, the land looked a striking green. The sky was mostly clear. People and horses performed.
A few feet away, a man drew closer. He trudged in her direction, the grass crushed under his weight. In his early thirties, he had a new face.
“Hi, welcome to Ranch Riley, first time?”
She squinted against the sun. “No, actually, I just came by for a quick turn.”
“No problem, how may I help you today? It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Colin, and I’ll be helping you for today. May I know if you’re a member? We can get you saddled up right away. Or if you’d like to check out the stables or groom the horses, it can be arranged, too. We have a range of activities for you and… your friends.” Colin searched behind her.
“Oh, no, I meant to say that I’m just stopping by. Thanks, though.”
He didn’t move.
“I’ll be leaving soon actually, I’m all good, thanks.”
Shifting his weight, the grass died, he offered again, “No problem. If there’s anything you need from the cafe–”
“No, no, I’m all set. I’ll just be a couple of minutes, is that alright?”
He hesitated. “If there’s anything you need, I’ll be over there. I’m Colin, by the way. Have a good one.”
Ugly boots, gross overalls. No coffee. Aged to fifty (or thirty). No pull.
She shouldn’t have come.
More from Creative Nonfiction & Fiction: Read Not My Yellow Wallpaper by Jamie
