Color-Blind

by Daya Daniels

  “I’ve never seen two people that love each other so much, hate each other just as much.

  “You both need therapy.”

  He chuckled. “Elijah, I know it wasn’t your choice, so don’t take this the wrong way but I wouldn’t mind living like you. This house is your sanctuary. It’s every bachelor’s dream.

  “What I’d give to come home every night to peace and quiet.” He threw his arms up in front of him. “And not to shouting and screaming and arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes after I’ve put in a sixteen-hour day at the garage.”

  I laughed. “I’m not so sure.”

  I was fortunate enough that all the comforts that I needed were at home. The house was a massive place for only one person to remain living in. There were three bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. It had a small cinema. There was a large gym downstairs that I spent two hours a day in and a library on the second floor that was next to my office, which overlooked the beach.

  If I didn’t want to go outside, I didn’t really have to. There was a grocery delivery service that brought items including fresh fruits, vegetables and meats right to my door once a week. If I paid extra they even stocked the fridge and took note of what items needed to be replaced. It was helpful to not have to shop for myself but I did at least cook for myself each night. I’d become quite good at it, always experimenting with different recipes that were emailed to me through a website I subscribed to.

  “Which one are you on?” Asher questioned, snatching up the copy of Harry Potter and Philosopher’s Stone by J.K Rowling, which was the first book in the series and looking it over curiously.

  “It’s the first one.” I explained with a smile. “It was his favorite. I always said I’d read them but procrastination should truly be a crime. I never had the time.”

  He gave me a nod, flipping through a few of the pages.

  “I have a call in a half hour so I need to shower. Just shut the door behind you.” I said starting past him.

  He raised his coffee cup in my direction without meeting my eyes. “Yeah will do.”

  Violet

  A deep voice answered the phone, when I finally mustered up the courage to dial the numbers with shaky fingers.

  “Elijah?”

  “Yes. Violet.” He answered before I could speak again. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  It had only been a day since I’d last seen him but I wanted to talk. Hesitantly, I began to speak. “Are you coming into the city tonight by any chance?”

  “I wasn’t initially. Why, what’s up?”

  “Nothing actually. I just know there aren’t any new bands on for the next couple of weeks.” I paused nervously, debating if I wanted to ask the next question.

  “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come over?”

  He let out a groan but remained silent for words.

  “Just to talk some more, that’s all.” I told him in a small voice.

  “Will it just be us?”

  “Yeah, I mean Brooke’s apartment is next door but I can lock it off, so she can’t come through. She might get upset about it but whatever.” I giggled.

  “Yeah, sure then.”

  “I was going to work for a few more hours and then I guess around that time, you’d be here?”

  “I can come in an hour or two if you want? It’ll be dark around that time.”

  “Okay, yeah that’s fine.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  I hung up the phone, holding it to my chest feeling a certain excitement I don’t remember ever feeling when I thought I’d see Jared or any other man for that matter. I didn’t know how to feel about that. I let a breath out, listening to my own heartbeat.

  What the fuck was I doing?

  Elijah

  The suicidal patients were the most difficult for me to handle. I made sure to check on them every day, sometimes reaching out to them in my own personal time. I always kept the police that lived nearby them on high alert, just in case.

  After losing a patient five years ago, I was more cautious than ever now. He’d jumped from the twenty-fifth story of his apartment building in downtown Portland.

  My jumper was named Nicholas Sutter. He was thirty-two years old. A year before he decided to end it, his wife had left him, taking their young daughter with her and remarried. He lost his job shortly after that, then his house. It was everything compounded and one day he cracked.

  They say that in our line of work, disconnect. I always had trouble doing so. I cared too much.

  It was normal procedure to have the psychologist write a report, following a suicide, which detailed the patients mental and physical symptoms. It was such a violation of privacy but it was what needed to be done. I had difficulty writing the report about Nicholas Sutter feeling tremendously guilty that I couldn’t prevent his death. I still felt guilty about it.

  I was vigilant with those patients, medicating them as well if I had to and visiting them at home if it was necessary. Those situations were the only ones that would get me out of the house during the day.

  “Are you thinking of harming yourself Melissa or anyone around you?” I asked calmly as she sobbed on the other end of the line.

  “No, no nothing like that. I just need something so I can sleep, Dr. Griffon.”

  “I’m very weary of medicating for your condition. I also need to know what other prescriptions you might be taking that other doctors have prescribed you. It can result in severe side effects and if you are over medicating, it could be the reason that you feel the way you do.” I told her firmly.

  “I’m not, Dr. Griffon.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll give you a call back in an hour.”

  “Thank you.” Melissa whispered before she hung up the phone.

  I was concerned Melissa was abusing prescription medication, which could be difficult sometimes to keep track of what medications patients were taking. They were free to go to multiple doctors, who would write them endless prescriptions for different medications. There was a vast choice of which pharmacies would fulfill whatever pill supply they needed.

  I slumped against the back of my chair, flexing my hand, thinking. I stared at the deep scar that ran along my forearm and along my hand.

  The sky outside was grey and cloudy and there were still people strolling along the beach as sunset slowly approached. I had a spectacular view from where I sat that took my mind off everything when I gazed out of the bay window at the opposite side of the room. I was jerked out my trance when the phone rang again. Melissa was on the end of it, eager for me to write her a prescription. Now, she was on my radar. This would be my last phone call and then I’d head into the city.

  Violet

  “The word is privacy Brooke, which I am entitled to.”

  “Vi, please. I’m just looking out for you.” She sighed.

  “If you need anything, please call. Do not come by.” I said firmly, holding the telephone to my ear.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m just surprised you’re inviting him here, Violet. You don’t even know him.”

  “I know enough, Brookie.”

  I stood in the middle in my studio. I was working on my last piece in the collection, which was a five by five canvas. Brooke had commented on each piece and thought every single one of them was worthy of mention. In addition to being my personal assistant, Brooke had a good eye for art and she was exceptional at her job. She’d also spent time fostering the careers of budding artists in the Portland area. We allowed them to also sell their work out of my gallery space.

  I knew the color I had in my hands was orange. I’d layer it with cream. Each paint tin was always labeled in braille with a color. Usually, I painted with my hands, only using a brush for different effects.

  The Rolling Stone magazine called my last collection inspiring, memorable and thought-provoking, associating my works with the likes of Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko – both whose work I’d never even seen but from what I�
��d been told they were incredible compliments.

  I was under tremendous pressure to deliver something that was worthy of people talking about for months to come with my next collection.

  I clicked off the stereo, still feeling the vibration of the bass in my head. I slipped my silk robe on, enjoying the feeling of the fabric against my skin. I shut the door behind me and headed downstairs to the bathroom.

  When I was done with the shower and making myself come twice under the relentless beating of the water, I dressed and spritzed on some perfume. I tossed a thin sleepshirt on and let my hair down to fall to the middle of my back. I’d decided to go braless but I’d managed to pull some panties on as I’d promised.

  When I reached the den, a beep sounded and my heart leapt in my chest. “Violet.” The deep voice said through the intercom.

  “I’ll unlock the door.” I told him.

  Heavy thuds hit each step until he made it to the top, his presence sucking up all the available air in the space. I inhaled the fresh scent of him that surrounded me before he stepped closer, still without saying a word. I craned my neck up and placed a hand in the center of his chest before he pulled me into a hug and into the soft sweater he wore.

  “Hello, Violet.”

  “Hi.” I whispered.

  I reached up wrapping my hands around his neck, running them through his soft hair, while he planted a soft kiss to my cheek.

  He pulled away, leaving me to feel his gaze on me. “No bra.” He whispered.

  I smiled a little. He noticed.

  “I hope you’re wearing panties.” He said continuing to move around. “This is a nice place.”

  “Thank you. Do you want something to drink?” I asked him while moving towards the kitchen. “I have wine, beer -.”

  He followed, his steps slow and heavy. “No alcohol.” He said.

  “Don’t you drink?” I asked quizzically.

  “Yes, but not much just one beer here and there.”

  “Oh.” I said.

  “Water then?”

  “Yes, please.” He answered stepping closer to me, followed by the sound of something clicking against the countertop.

  “I don’t need you to help me.” I said.

  “I wasn’t planning to.” He said coolly. “I was just setting something down.”

  “Oh.”

  He chuckled. “You’re an artist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’ve never seen your own work?”

  “No.”

  He seemed amused and in disbelief but didn’t comment on the various pieces that hung on the walls in the den.

  “What do you do?” I asked, following in the direction of his voice.

  I handed him the glass and shivered when his fingers grazed mine when he plucked it from my hands.

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can we sit?” He asked.

  “Y-yes.” I stuttered out, unable to hide my own nervousness.

  “What kind of doctor are you?” I settled on the sofa next to him.

  He stood quickly and removed his hoodie it seemed with a rustle and then his shoes with a clunk taking a deep breath before he settled back down into the supple leather.

  “I’m a psychologist but I have another job that keeps me busy two nights a week as well.”

  “You must be really smart.”

  He only grunted. “Was that a question or a statement?”

  I laughed.

  “It was a statement.” I said softly. “So, you have your bachelor’s or master’s?”

  “PhD actually.”

  “Wow.” I said. “That’s really cool.”

  He took a chug of his water, setting the glass back down on the coffee table softly. Another one’s of those breaths escaped his throat. If I wasn’t mistaken he was as nervous about all this as I was. But I wasn’t sure. Whenever I invited men here, it was usually just to fuck. I never made it past the front door fully clothed but just sitting here, talking, shooting the shit with this man made me nervous and I didn’t know why.

  I let out another exhale while the fresh scent that lingered on his skin filled my nostrils and was somehow settling my frantic nerves. Easing deeper into the leather, I leaned into him a little inhaling his presence that was somehow smothering me in a way I liked. I didn’t get this. I didn’t get any of this. I was drawn to this man like an addict to a drug and he was my fix.

  “What’s the matter, Violet?” He whispered, raking his fingers through my hair.

  Instantly, I melted into the affection.

  “You seem unsettled this evening.”

  I trembled as his touch grew more purposeful, more soothing. I shut my eyes for a moment and allowed myself to revel in the feeling of his fingertips along my scalp.

  “No, it’s just the ah. I don’t know.”

  “You’re nervous.” He said simply.

  “No!” I said loudly, shooting up from seat and out of his embrace but before I could step away from the edge of the sofa, he grabbed the hem of my sleepshirt, yanking me back down into his lap. His nose pushed into the strands of my hair and his heavy arm wrapped around my waist, locking me in against him.

  God he smelled good.

  I shifted a little more grinding myself into the ridge along his sweatpants, feeling his hardness against the skin on my ass. He was big and long and thick. I couldn’t think of anything besides having this man between my legs. The desperate sound of him breathing me in, only confirmed he wanted it as much as I did but for some reason, he seemed restrained as if he were allowing himself to enjoy me, just a little. When I did it again, a moan spilled from my lips. His warm hands dragged along the insides of my thighs, causing them to quiver and a squeak left my mouth when he did it again.

  “What did you do today?” He spoke into my hair.

  “I worked in my studio. I have a show in two weeks.” I panted out.

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “You?”

  “I usually spend the day talking to patients, sending emails and completing research.”

  “You sound very busy.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, usually I am.”

  “So, what’s a fancy doctor doing hanging outside of a bar late at night.”

  “I’m allowed to have extra-curricular activities, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose.” I whispered, reveling in his touch.

  His hands slid up my waist, warm and firm, taking the hem of my sleepshirt with them. Cool air touched my skin when he pulled it together into a ball at my waist. His breathing grew deep and a groan left his mouth.

  “These are very nice.” He said softly, while a finger grazed over the lace that edged my bikini line.

  I squirmed on his thigh, feeling my insides warm and the wetness seep out of me. The thin lace between my legs served as friction with each twist of my thighs, rubbing against my clit and everything me, that was begging to be filled by him.

  “I want to see your work.” He growled into my neck, the vibration making me hot.

  The feeling of his hands, his heavy weight, the scent of him and the deep timbre of his voice was undoing me. I sank deeper into the sensation of my bare thighs brushing against the soft cotton of his sweatpants and T-shirt, feeling an uncontrollable need to tear my clothes off. He continued to hold me against him. My hands clutched his thick forearms, using them as anchors, while I grinded myself against him.

  “Some of it is here but the rest is upstairs.” I said relaxing into the massage he was giving me and resisting the urge to rub my crotch against his thigh.

  He stood slowly, standing me up. Fire extinguished.

  “Take me there.” He breathed out.

  Hugging my middle, I backed away unsteadily feeling more rejected than an American Idol contestant. The only difference was I had the goods. Why didn’t this man seem to want them? I ran my fingers through my hair, letting out a half-frustrated, half-turned the fuck on breath and inched away from him. Taki
ng a few steps, I lingered next to him, allowing myself to bathe in his warmth and the natural scent of his skin.

  I wanted this man’s cock, bad and I never had to beg. This game we were playing was beginning to piss me off. I stood straight and snapped out of the pathetic feeling that was smothering me and ran a hand through my hair.

  Get it the-fuck-together, Violet.

  “It’s this way.” I told him, lifting my arm in the direction of the stairs across the room.

  The only thing I hear before I head off and away from him is an amused chuckle. The sound was deep and suppressed but I’m sure... it was a chuckle.

  Violet

  After allowing Elijah to head inside the studio ahead of me, I stood to the side listening to his heavy footsteps thud against the wooden floors.

  “These are amazing, Violet.”

  “Thank you.” I said following his voice.

  He walked around a bit and then headed back over towards me, taking my hand in his and leading me away from the wall where I stood.

  “What’s this one?” He asked, guiding me towards a corner of the room.

  Extending my hand, I ran my fingers over the canvas, feeling the texture of the dry paint. “It’s me.” I whisper, thinking of the day I painted it.

  The angry day.

  I painted myself naked after a massive fight I’d had with Fiona on Valentine’s Day over the restaurant selection for James. Only a cow like her would book a seafood restaurant for a man that’s allergic to fish, lobster and crab for his birthday because she wanted seafood.

  I shook away the thoughts and felt the lines of the thickly layered dried paint and then let my hand drag over my own curves. I did everything by feel, by touch. I was so in tune with everything around me, more so than I think people that had their sight were. The small things mattered to me. The pads of my fingertips glided over the ridges and the bumps and then over a smooth patch in the canvas that I knew I’d painted peach.