Carrying the painting home by her fingertips, she faces the canvas forward so as not to ruin her jacket. In this position, the painting gives passersby a momentary feeling that they are her parents, and she is their child, and they’re picking her up from kindergarten, and she’s already opening her mouth to tell them about her science lesson.
She doesn’t want to come across any younger than she already is, so she tilts the canvas down, even though it’s much more comfortable to hold upright, in perfect presenting form. She insists it’s not done yet, and she’s not one to make herself a liar. She continues working on the painting all week, replacing each wet corner with something more perfect. She doesn’t know what to do once it’s finished, so she sets it on the ground and tries not to look at it anymore. She started prepping a self-portrait a few days ago. It is large, and the edges will also be blue, and she is already deciding which wall it will stare back at her from.
In the evening, she steps out of her jeans and into the pair of sweatpants she allows on her bed. As the waistband clears her calves, she notices one large and very deep bruise on the inside of her knee, and one larger but less deep bruise about three inches higher. She cannot recall what might have caused the bruises and it bothers her for a few days.
She has a sleepover with her old roommate, and together they giggle at the muffled rhythm of her current roommate’s sleepover next door. She thinks about how for one unlikely night, the number of bodies under their roof has nearly doubled. She thinks about how much better everything feels.
As she walks to work, the wind blows at her back at such a precise speed that for a few moments, the Kleenex and the Chips Ahoy wrapper and the Other Kleenex shuffle alongside her in the world’s worst Sorcerer’s Apprentice ripoff.
She rotates the turnstile towards her with a coat sleeve, and sneaks through like she usually does, realizing mid-maneuver where her two bruises came from.
-Jordan
Love, love, love