"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."
The last thing I have to do before I move out is paint the bedroom back to white. A few days ago, I taped off the baseboards and the trim around the doors and windows. I couldn’t spend any more time in the room after that, so I left the priming for another time. I know that I still have time to get this done, technically, but I don’t think I can sleep in this apartment anymore. I need to get out of here. I need to get some fresh air. A friend is out of town and offered me her home to crash in until I can move into a new place. Before I move out, this has to get done. I consider leaving it as is, but in the back of my mind I know I have to send Mike his half of the deposit. I don’t want him to be disappointed with his amount. I want him to know that I have not fallen apart; I’m responsible and am not in fact “fucked” as he predicted I would be.
I’ve been to Home Depot; I have everything I need. It’s all piled on the floor in the empty bedroom with dark royal blue walls. This used to be my favorite room in our apartment. Dark blue walls, with a California King sized bed draped in bright white sheets and down comforter, all the furniture was rustic, honey colored wood, mismatched and pieced together from various flea markets. There used to be a bronze antique tree, with a tree house in it and a small boy climbing up the ladder, hanging on the wall between the closet doors. My trunk, sold to some excited Craigslister, was under the windows and held pillows and extra linens. Garnishing the windows, balancing on top of the wooden blinds, were some beautiful dried flowers that Jack brought to me one day. In one corner used to be a very tall, thin bookcase, where Mike and I stored all of our favorite books – the special ones that we wouldn’t loan to people. The room was both refreshing and cozy. It was romantic. It was perfect.
You would think that removing all of those things from the room would make it feel different. But it doesn’t. Or it hasn’t. The wall color remains and the blue makes the room feel unchanging—solid; the color is like a fortress, built to protect all the memories and keep me from invading. It makes me sick to my stomach. And it has been impossible to muster the courage to repaint the walls. I’ve called for backup.
When Travis shows up, he arrives with snacks and weed and another pack of cigarettes for me—all my coping mechanisms brought to me in the pockets of my biggest vice of all. He forgot to bring clothes to paint in. He’s wearing his one and only good pair of pants. I toss him a pair of sweatpants that I stole from some exboyfriend long before this one. They’re huge on me but they’re my favorite. I have to roll the waistline three or four times just to get them to stay on me. Travis does too. We may have been painting for 20 minutes before I decide I can’t be in there anymore. I step outside, smoke, and order a pizza. I’m sitting on the steps where Mike and I have smoked together every night for a year and a half. I was in my sweatpants and wrapped up in a blanket. He was beat boxing and telling me a silly anecdote about his day. We talked about where in the world we wanted to be if anywhere was an option. Lost or Battlestar paused on the tv, waiting for us to come back to the couch and cuddle. I think about this as I’m smoking now. I think I’m romanticizing it. It’s hard to remember now. Travis steps out to see what I’m doing. Only fair, I guess, since I did leave him in my apartment to paint my bedroom that I shared with my exboyfriend. He puts his arm around me and kisses me on the mouth. I hold it for a moment, politely, and then pull away. I’m too sad right now to be interested in that. It seems like a bullshit consolation prize. He takes a drag or three off my cigarette. He looks content. I told him I ordered a pizza. Pepperoni with green peppers, extra large. The pizza is going to be about 45 minutes. He suggests I try to get some more painting done in the mean time.
I sigh and stand up, pull the screen door open and shuffle back to the bedroom. Travis has sprawled “TRAVIS <3 ANGIE” in primer across the dark blue wall where the antique tree used to hang. I stare at it for a moment. I start to cry and then I feel nauseous. There is a stabbing pain in my stomach. I run to the bathroom, fall to my knees and puke.
