Fall 2021 | Occasus | Issue 11.2

Colours

Each and every one of us is a single splatter of white paint upon a cosmic-purple background. Or one flicker of light in a starry night’s sky. Or an insignificant brown spot that can’t be bothered to show up on Google maps.

There. Is that what you want? You want me to pop my head out from above the clouds before I go blind staring at the sun? Well, I have news for you. I like the blotchy patches of red that appear on the inside of my eyelids. It reminds me of the magenta clouds of gas so often depicted in aesthetically pleasing galaxy shots. And what’s wrong with that? Let’s imagine that those hazy red auras we see when we close our eyes are really dots of paint that were dabbed out with an artist’s sponge. What could be so wrong with that?

“You’re weird,” Kyle tells me as he stabs a crouton with his fork. It’s not an insult. Just an observation, he assures me. 

“And you’re boring.”

He laughs like he’s the most laid-back guy on the planet. Nothing fazes him because nothing is real. I’ve seen his brand of nihilism before and it’s about as genuine as his electric blue hair. That’s what convinced me to ask him out in the first place – his blue hair, I mean. I thought, surely this man is a dreamer if he dyes his hair the colour of jolly ranchers. I imagine him going to his hairstylist and showing her a picture of a Honda civic, saying I want Molten Lava. And she would say, oh honey, what you really want is Cosmic Blue.

Kyle leans back in his chair with a smirk, throwing his arm over the edge. “Do you say that to all the guys you go out with?”

“Just the ones who see in black and white.” I put my elbows on the table and give him a sarcastic grin in return. I’ve been told my flirting is too subtle and that some people think I’m actually being serious. I can’t decide if I’m being serious or not. I do like the mischievous glint in his eye though. 

“Oh fuck, my hair is white right?” He pauses, really milking the skit. His face contorts into a convincing look of worry, only his eyes are too smiley, too eager to finish the gag. “I swear if they gave me blue when I explicitly told them I can’t see it…”

“You’re so fake,” I say, hitting the table. The forks and plates shake. I’m still trying to decide if this is playful banter or if this man is actually a jerk. “Your life must be very plain.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you think I’m weird for seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses.”

Kyle scoffs. “So what if I don’t think we’re all born from stardust? Big deal if I don’t see the stars as tiny specks of hope or whatever.” He leans forward so that both of our elbows are on the table. His face is close to mine. There are small shimmers of gold in his dull grey eyes. “I’m sure you’ve mistaken blood for honey with those glasses of yours.”

The sentence catches me off guard. A quick and easy reply does not come so quick and easy. I’m suddenly thinking about Kyle’s parents. He must have gotten those blueish grey eyes from his mom and his dad. It’s true that I don’t know anything about him. Maybe his dad is an astronomer who taught his son all the technical terms for the sky. He grew up understanding that the pixie dust was just the last remnants of hydrogen and helium. Maybe the only thing that his mom could pass down to him was her eyes. Who knows…?

I think Kyle could see the sudden loss of light in my face because he softens his expression. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. “We just see things differently.”

Kyle chews his lip thoughtfully. “I sometimes wish I could see the world through eyes like yours. I try, at least for the sake of other people.”

Something about the man’s softer tone makes me want to match his emotion. “It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, anyway.”

Rainbows fade. People walk away. Some days, decaying grey clouds are all that can be seen. The overcast sky washes away the vibrancy of people like watercolours that become too thin to retain their once sunny dispositions. Without the sun glaring in your eyes, it becomes a lot easier to see through the lies you tell yourself.

Some days I stay in bed, completely alone after everyone I trusted in has left. My naivety leads me to believe that people mean what they say, and they do what they promise. I should have known by now that even if the weatherman calls for sun that might not be what we get. I know people leave. I know nothing lasts forever. I’m not a child, but it still hurts when I’m reminded that life isn’t a work of art, delicately drawn by a gentle hand. Even if I pretend it is.

“I think you should keep on pretending,” Kyle tells me. “Or else your life will become very plain.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs just as the waiter brings us the cheque. “Then again, you don’t know anything about me, so how would you know?”

I watch Kyle as he pays the bill. The slip of paper comes with two hard candies, one white and the other pink. They’re both too far away for me to reach, but there is no way that I would end this date without something sweet. “Will you pass me the pink candy?”

Kyle looks away from the card machine and spots the two mints. He studies them for a moment before sliding over the white one hesitantly.

“That’s the wrong one.”

“Oh…sorry,” Kyle mutters as he looks back and forth between the candies. His brow furrows in confusion before he shrugs. “Just pretend it’s pink.” 

Mackenzie Emberley is a fourth-year student completing an Honours Specialization in Creative Writing and English Language and Literature at Western University. They have published flash fiction, poetry, and academic essays in two of Arts & Humanities Students' magazines.