the blind side of love | chaennie

thirteen

Roseanne knew it wasn't over; a two and a half year relationship didn't end with a five word proclamation and a hasty exit. She knew he would call, and if he didn't call, then she would call. It wasn't over, but it was close. It was almost over, which, in some way, was good enough. It was enough to feel relieved that she'd had the guts to stand up for herself that half a second before she'd fled.

She wished she weren't such a coward. For all of Alice's hiding, at least she'd been brave enough, eventually, to come clean, to be honest, to face her fears. She wished she saw herself being that brave someday. Perhaps, tonight, had been a step in that direction.

The apartment was dark, empty, when Roseanne stepped inside. She was relieved not to have to face her roommate and the bombardment of questions that would surely follow. Yet the stillness unsettled her; she didn't want to be alone.

From the fridge, she grabbed a bottle of grape juice and took it with her to her room. She dropped her messenger bag – the closest thing to a purse she carried – by the door. Outside, a car passed by, horns blaring, kids yelling. She sat at the edge of the bed and uncapped her drink.

Mozart's "The Turkish March" began to play from somewhere in her bag, and Roseanne stared, but made no move to answer the cell phone. It was Jungkook, and it was too soon. She needed more time to prepare her closing argument, to build a better defense against his case.

She sighed against the silence, held her breath against the chance that it might ring again. When it didn't, she relaxed, looking around the room, sipping her juice. She needed new posters, she decided after a moment of reflection, or maybe just more of them. The ones she had were starting to wear at the edges, and they did little to cover the ugly walls behind.

Her laptop, which she'd forgotten to turn off before she'd left, whirred softly behind her, and she turned to look at it. Had her email been answered? she wondered, having forgotten all about it until that moment.

Dali's Swans Reflecting Elephants stared back at her from her desktop wallpaper and she clicked into her email client.

While her email loaded, the cell phone began to chime again. Roseanne rolled off the bed and picked up the bag. She dug her cell phone from its depths and glanced at the screen for a moment before shutting it off.

Back on the bed, she looked at the monitor. The name 'Ruby Jane' stared back at her from the inbox. She smiled as she clicked on the email.

When she was done reading, she clicked 'reply' and bit her lip thoughtfully as she began to type.

Dear Jane,

I'm glad to know that I pass the non-pretentious test. Since you're such an expert and all, I guess I'll have to trust your judgment. :)

Please don't ever think that I regret you buying my artwork or that I want it back. I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather have it, honestly. It's just a strange thing, I think, selling art. There's really just the one, you know? And when it's gone, you have no idea where it is, or who has it, or if they even appreciate having it. Perhaps, they just gave it to someone as a gift (a just-got-back-from-NY memento) and that person hated it and threw it away. Sometimes I worry that's what happens. And so, when it comes to a piece that really matters to me – like 'Shadow' – I can't bear the thought of someone, somewhere, tossing it in the trash.

It means a lot to know you like it. Not because it's flattering to my ego (though it is) and not because it gives me some self-confidence (though it does), but because I know it's safe and appreciated, and not sitting in a landfill somewhere.

About the scattered/stuck question, I don't know how to answer it. I'm really bad at self- analysis. The past few months I've mainly just felt like everything I create is entirely lackluster. It's been a long time since I've done anything I really cared about.