All The Shattered Pieces

Blank canvas. An empty space to project hopes and dreams. That’s what you’re looking for when, pushing open the door, tinkling the bell above it, you walk into the small-colonial-house-turned-art-shop. And I say, Hello may I help you? But you’re browsing, just browsing.

And amidst acrylics, oils, watercolours, pencils, crayons, brushes, you look rather confused. You confess with an awkward smile, you’re a complete beginner. And there’s no problem at all, I can suggest some materials. You say that it would be very nice. You joke that like Van Gogh you’re all ears.

At the end, you leave your umbrella and a strong impression behind.

You attend my ceramics class with the pretense of making a vase.

It’s spring, and at the back of the store, in the blooming garden, twelve or so people are muddying their hands.

You couldn’t be a worse student. I can’t help but laugh at the result once the lesson is over. You say I don’t get it. It’s a surrealistic piece, it is supposed to look like it’s melting.

After the class we sit on the grass under the lilac tree, eating tiny sandwiches, drinking ice tea and breathing the sweet fragrance of the newborn season. I explain how scoring works: you scar a piece first before putting it in place. Sounds like life, we agree.

Words instinctively float from our lips. As if we were birds, and we couldn’t help singing. Grasshoppers don’t know how to keep quiet, soon the entire garden will know our secrets.

You pick a daisy and start to rip petals — wants me, wants me not, wants me. And you look at me.

By summer, we are holding hands.

We are celebrating one year together. A candlelit dinner at your place, and you have a surprise for me. Close your eyes. Open, open. It’s another one of your surrealistic pieces: a teacup. I love it! Yes, promise. Really. You toast to our happiness, to us, because we are happiness. Cheers! Quit living alone, you say, let’s share a place.

Low volume jazz plays on the stereo, the fridge hums, the cold January wind whispers through the window’s gap. Outside, the wind chimes collide furiously.

You love me, don’t I feel the same? Why should it be such a big decision then? Like Salvador Dali’s soft watches, time isn’t solid, it is melting away, shouldn’t we enjoy it together before it slips through our hands?

Once… Twice… Three times … I pick up the phone. It’s Fran. She knows you spent the night on Martin’s sofa, so she wastes no time and spills a torrent of unrequested sympathy.

Yes, another fight. Because now every cup of tea or glass of water holds the possibility for a tropical storm. What caused our raised voices, our short-tempered words?

I’m planning a workshop for the following April, and once again I’m the villain.

You two just need some time, Fran says. As if we were a broken arm, a cold, or a bee sting.

But I fear it may not be so simple; I’m developing this bad habit of saying You and Me instead of Us.

Fancy food, boring music, and people I would describe using these same two adjectives. Probably by the end of the year, you say to the small group gathered around us. Yes, yes absolutely… amazing for my career.

At these parties, I watch, nod, and smile when necessary.

The woman standing next to me, her mouth is moving — raisin lips coated in red lipstick, moving, moving, moving. She stops, and looks at me, waiting.

Beg your pardon.

How about your little art shop? She says, playing with the olive in her martini.

I hate how these people always downgrade what I do. My little art shop, my interesting arts degree, my cute workshops. What they actually mean underneath the honey-sickening tone is respectively: unprofitable, useless, insignificant.

What do you mean? I say, all eyes on me in expectation.

Aren’t you going too?

Generic bossa nova keeps on playing, the champagne fizzes inside long glasses, the fireplace crackles.

We’ve been avoiding this topic to avoid the fights.

You look surprised, a bit awkward with my silence. These dress-coded people that you call friends shouldn’t suspect we are not perfect.

God forbid.

You mister lawyer-man, with a new job awaiting in DC, new tailor-made suit, special-treated leather shoes, expensive Rolex, you do everything to impress now.

Forgive me. My answer may not be straightforward.

I start a sentence...

Of course she’s coming with me! You say, placing your hand on my shoulder as if I were a kid. Look at her, what would she do without me?

You laugh. Everyone laughs. I force a smile.

Under the running water, my hands bleed shades of blue. The color swirls and disappears down the drain. I’m working on a series of monochromatic paintings: little blue houses in strange and unfamiliar blue landscapes.

Am I listening?

You remove more books from the shelf. Did you call the agent about that space for rent?

If you mean the cement block with no personality, less space than a box of matches and an abusive rent price...

No, I didn’t.

You should do it soon. Wouldn’t it be a pity if someone else got it?

As our apartment fills with boxes, it opens more and more space for conflict. Only three meters of silence separates us, and I carefully measure my words while I clean my brushes in the sink.

It’s not easy to leave everything I’ve built behind.

You stop. Most of your books are in a cardboard box, a few still in your hands. You shift towards me, and a thin lock of hair falls over your forehead. You are a marble statue, an angel face delicately sculpted, but with no signs of warmth in it.

Well, I think we should stay together. Don’t you? You say.

Our place suddenly feels uncomfortably bare, stripped to the bone. Just furniture, wooden floors and walls. When you talk your voice resonates.

You say that I’m going to love it there.

You take me to another gathering to which I’d rather not go. I drag you home early, even though you want to stay. You step your way heavily into the bedroom. Not another tempest, please.

When did living together become this art of running from each other before saying or hearing something hurtful?

I seek shelter in the kitchen, pouring myself some coffee in our surrealistic cup — crooked like a willow tree. The space shrinks when you cross the archway and walk into it.

You don’t look at me. You open and close the upper cabinets without any purpose.

When you lean against the counter by my side, I try a smile, a white flag. Your guns are down, but I know the silence is too delicate. It will break at any moment.

The blueish kitchen light leaks around the rest of the unlit apartment. All your things are organized and packed. Most of mine are dispersed around in a confusing manner.

You better pack your things soon, you say.

I pass my heart through a meat-grinder and words come out the other side:

I’m not going with you.

I wait to hear again and again that I’m selfish, that I’m not thinking about us, that I’m ruining everything. That you love me, please. I wait.

Fine, you say.

You slam the front door on your way out.

And my heart goes on beating.

Trembling, trembling hands creating coffee waves inside the cup. Trembling, trembling hands holding what now looks like an artifact from the past, its meaning lost long ago.

When I become solid again, I release my grip.

The cup falls.

A ceramic explosion.

I step back and look at the pieces of you and me, scattered all around.

Hey, thanks for reading! This short story was originally published on my newsletter https://lettera82.substack.com. My fiction is pretty much invisible on Substack so I decided to give Wrizzit a try and see if I can connect with more readers here. :)