People tell me there is this thing called Color. I smile and nod when they try describing it to me. All I’ve ever known is Grey. It doesn’t matter to me. How things feel, how they smell, how they sound--that’s how I see the world. Some things are lighter shades of Grey than others. Some are closer to what most people would call Black. And don’t get any ideas about how I live less of a life because I can’t see Color. I can see lightning in a storm. I can see the smile on Gavin’s face when he nails a move on the half-pike. I can see the steam rising off a cup of coffee, fresh brewed, when I sit with my mom and we watch the sunrise from our apartment. She tells me the sky looks Pink in the morning, and sometimes I wish I could see it--just for her, though.
I’m sitting on the subway when I see The Girl. My backpack, full of schoolbooks, sits heavy at my feet. Earbuds in, I let my hair fall over my eyes, snugging my beanie down on my head, settling in for the hour long ride. I’m tired. It’s been an incredibly long day of Physics and failing at Calc. I’m looking forward getting home and working with my clay.
See, the funny things is that people think artists have to be able to see Color. I assure you, I can make art much better than what some would hang on the wall of the museum. A random splattering of Color means nothing. Not to me anyways. I like to sculpt faces. The smooth curve of a cheekbone, the ridge of a nose, a small quirk of a smile. Spiky hair in tufts that fall over the ears in a who-cares-what-you-have-to-say kind of way. I don’t show the guys my room. They would say it’s weird, full of white clay faces. My mom says it’s brilliant, even though I never add Color. My faces are blank and raw and real. Like people.
Except for her.
She presses into the subway, wedging herself into an opening right in front of me. She is too short to reach the handlebar above her, and two bulky men in grey peacoats block her from grabbing a pole. I watch her white sneakers as she plants them firmly on the ground, spreading her legs to keep her balance. I glance at her face, then glance again. And again.
Her skin … her skin isn’t light grey. It isn’t dark grey, or even a light shade of black. It is like the flavor of coffee with creamer in it, smooth and bold. Her sweater is like bite of the frigid January air on my skin as I nail a Caballerial. Her hair looks like the sharp tangy smell of my mom’s soap--Lavender. And her eyes are like … the sound of rain hitting the cement at the park on a hot summer night. Sharp and dark and warm.
I suddenly realize she is looking back at me with those eyes of summer rain. I quickly look away, embarrassed to have been caught staring. I feel heat prick my cheeks and stare instead at the grey woman sitting next to me, a dark grey book in her hands, a grey coat swathing her lumpy body. Was I crazy? Was I imagining things? I dare another look at the girl standing so close I could touch her. I can’t help it. She still stands there, looking away from me now, and she is still so … vibrant. She is--well--she’s suddenlyjostledandfallingrightintoMYLAP.
The girl yelps, scrambling to get out of my lap, but the subway is still shuddering precariously and she can’t find her balance. I grab her elbow to steady her and she instinctively grabs my hand to give herself leverage against the swaying floor. In a moment she has regained stability but I forget to let go of her arm. She jerks it out of my grasp.
“Thanks,” she says tersely. “I’m good now.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
I meet her eyes, fully, and neither of us look away. And suddenly I realize why she’s different.
She is in Color.
