Page 31 of Stroked Long
A purple couch rests in the middle of the room with a colorful throw perched over the back. In front of the couch on the floor is a pink shag rug with a rather large vintage trunk as a coffee table. There is a television, but I’m pretty sure it’s from a second-hand store because there is depth to it in the back. It’s a tube.
To the right is a little alcove in the wall that she converted into a bedroom and to the left her kitchen is decorated with bright green cabinets, making quite the statement in her already bold space.
“What do you think?” She beams up at me, a mischievous grin on her face.
“Uh, it’s bright.”
It’s bright?Jesus, you couldn’t even come up with a fake compliment. You always have to tell it like it is.
I’m chastising myself when Ruby starts laughing and shuts the door behind us. “Man, I have you pegged so perfectly.”
Slightly confused, I ask, “What do you mean?” She doesn’t answer me, instead she picks up an envelope off her small kitchen table and hands it to me. “What’s this?”
“Just open it.”
Curiosity wins out and I open the envelope. Inside is a white folded piece of paper. I glance up at her to see her smile stretch from ear to ear and then unfold the piece of paper. In bold red marker, two words stare up at me.
It’s bright.
The melodic sound of her laughter echoes through the tiny space.
“The look on your face is priceless. Come on.” She grabs me by the arm and pulls me to her couch where I’m forced to sit. “Are you thirsty? I have water. I know how much a fish like you lives by it.”
“Water is fine,” I answer briskly, still a little perplexed over her little envelope trick. “How did you know?”
Reaching up into a cabinet, her dress riding high on the back of her thighs, she retrieves a glass in the shape of Gumby’s head. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.
While she pours water into the glass from a filter in her fridge, she says, “You’re just easy to read. Visiting your apartment just once and the type of clothes you wear, I knew you would think my apartment is too bright.” She turns to me, a genuine smile on her face. “But there is nothing wrong with a little brightness in your life. I’m just glad I’m the one who gets to expose you to it.” With a wink, she hands me my glass.
“Thank you.”
“So what’s in the bag?”
Glancing down at my bag, I feel embarrassed. “I brought some fruit salad, in case you were hungry.”
With her hands on her hips, she gives me a surprised look. “Well, look at you being super sweet. I love fruit salad. Is there cantaloupe in it?”
“Yeah, and honey dew.”
Disgust is now replaced on her face. “Ugh, gross, the cancer of fruit salad. I will pass but why don’t I put it in the fridge for you?”
“Okay . . .”
That was fucking weird.
Feeling slightly uncomfortable, I peer around her place some more, taking in the interesting art hung on her walls. There is no rhyme nor reason to any of it, they’re just canvases with a variety of paint strokes. I should compliment her on the paintings. That seems like something normal to do. I sip my water, swallow, and then say, “I like your paintings.”
She brightens immediately, more than I thought was possible. “Thank you. I painted them myself. I know what you must be thinking: ‘wow a bunch of strokes on the canvas, way to go, Picasso.’”
“I wasn’t thinking that—”
She holds up her hand to stop me. “It’s okay, I think the same thing. It didn’t take me very long to paint them and all I did was toss my brush around, not really caring how it came out.”
“Why paint it then?” I ask, not really sure if it’s a rude question. I’ve lived my entire life, putting my heart into what I’m working on. So why half-ass something?
She smirks at me. “Sometimes the beauty in the art piece isn’t about the strokes, Bodi. Sometimes it’s about the colors and how you mold them together. It’s really about taking a dark, mysterious color and mixing it with something bright and cheery. It’s the contrast that makes them so beautiful together.”
Why does it seem like she’s not just talking about the paint colors?
