What Rhymes With Orange

Grey Day

A week after I had my fortune read to me, I was surprised to find myself able to continue writing and choosing some of my older poems for the new collection. And I was happy at how it looked thus far. It was a relief to feel any sort of satisfaction after that night, and I felt as if I was recovering more and more each day. What helped me out most were how Marilyn visited more often to share a meal, some stories and more wine (they must think I have a drinking problem, but maybe I do. Whatever.) and how Adam stayed in touch with me, sending me poems at least once a day together with one or two personal messages. Apparently all he ever did was go to the office and head back home to sleep, then go to the office again in the morning and it just went on and on and sometimes he grew sick of it while other times he'd be totally fine. I told him how maybe he should take a few days' break and that it was the same with me. Just one cycle every day with no end in sight – I wake up, shower and have breakfast, check messages, go over my work, have lunch, go over my work, have dinner, go over my work one last time and go to bed. Any deviation from that was a welcome treat so sometimes I listened to music, went for walks (avoiding the old lady and her cottage at all costs), thought about getting a new cat (or maybe a dog), and bought take-out instead of cooking my own food. During one of these small deviations I found a tiny art store in the corner of the market and bought some watercolors, brushes and watercolor paper. I checked online for paintings that might inspire me – Van Gogh, Monet, Vermeer, Van Eyck, Ingres, Kandinsky, Yerka and Magritte. I thought about translating my poetry into images, hoping it would help, but most of the time I just stared at another kind of blank page.

It was one of those blank page Saturday mornings when I scrolled over the manuscript and realized I was almost done. This is it. Maybe a few more days. And then, I'll be sending it. Then what? Agony all over again. I struggled to be more optimistic but no words of comfort came to mind. I should be ready. Win or lose, I should be ready. I clicked on PRINT and the machine started humming. I needed to feel the document in my hands, flip over the pages like a possible reader would, linger over the edges like a lover on his lover's curves. As I waited for the machine to vomit my bottled up emotions, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the bedroom window. I watched the dust particles dance along the beams of light and I moved my hand against them, and I watched my skin turn to gold and my long fingers creating shadows.

Tap.

I stopped, listening for the sound I wasn't sure I just heard. Did I hear something drop? I waited a few more moments. Maybe it's the printer. Hmm, oh well. This time I lifted my left hand and tried to catch the dust between my fingers.

Tap.

There it is again! The printer had just stopped whirring when I got up to turn it off. I took the thick bundle of pages in my hands, pressed them against my nose and inhaled the scent of freshly printed ink and paper. Ah, wonderful. I need coffee. I placed the manuscript on the bed, remembering to get a sliding folder from the cabinet to hold the pages together.

Tap.

From the corner of my eye I saw something hit the window pane. Was that a goddamn rock!? Who the fuck does that anymore, seriously? I rushed to open the window and look outside. Adam was there.

"Sylvia, oh Sylvia. You snobbish princess. Let down your hair!"

"What the fuck, Adam!? Stop screaming! The neighbors... neighbor... will hear you!"

"Your doorbell isn't working and your phone isn't answering! Whatever happened to voicemail, huh?"

"Um... maybe you can knock? Like a normal person!? Jesus!"