Purple Paisley

Taking a two year break from college had somehow made my room finding skills

dissipate all together, and so I was staring intensely at my schedule hoping the

print on the page would somehow lead me in the right direction, when I saw the girl

of my dreams. Do you ever have one of those moments when all you can think of is

every movie cliché you've ever seen about a beautiful women? A hair metal ballad

like “Sweet Cherry Pie" starts  playing and  the blonde in a tight mini skirt starts

walking toward the camera in slow motion, hair blowing in the non-existent wind.

          “Don't even think about it, kid” My hallucination was broken, by a

freckled girl, smirking at my display of lust.  “She's pretty much out of your league”.

          “I wasn't, uh, she's uh...hi”.

“Hi. I'm Viola, and if you're in Carmichael's class you better get in there.

She's a real pain in the ass when it comes to tardiness”

         “Yeah, thanks”.


I followed Viola into the classroom and took the seat behind her, still a

little lost in my fantasy. Lost enough that I didn't notice that my blonde perfection

was now standing in the front of the room writing the reading assignment for the

next class on the board.

“She's Carmichael?”  I whispered to Viola.

“I told you she was out of you league”. She chuckled, and pulled her auburn hair

into a loose ponytail.

I spent the rest of the class staring at the blue and white of my

notebook, looking up only briefly to take notes on John Bunyan and Pilgrim's

Progress. I was boiling in my embarrassment and had never been more excited for

10:30 a.m. in my life. I was furiously shoving my notebook into my bag when Viola

tapped me on the shoulder.

“What's your name, teacher lover?”

“Aidan”.

         “Well, Aidan I'm not a professor or anything, but I have a break if you

would like to get a cup of coffee with me?”

         “Um, sure”.

         Viola pulled her hair out of the ponytail, and pulled her threadbare black

sweater over her Pink Floyd tee shirt. Her jeans had gapping holes in the knees

and over those jeans was a thigh length  purple paisley skirt.

         “Vintage?” I said pointing at the skirt.

         “Nope. I made it. I was feeling flower childy...is that a word?”

         “I don't think so”.

         “Well I guess it is now”. She smirked which made her nose crinkle.

                                                 ~

         “So, Aidan Bowers, aren't you a little old to be a Junior?”

         “Yes.” I stared into my black coffee, watching the swirl of liquid pickup

the bits of food left in the mug, after a less the proficient washing.

         “Is there a reason?”


         “I liked the party part of college a little too much more than the go to

class and increase your brain matter part. So my highly respected parents pulled

me out to be sure I wouldn't soil there reputation.” I took an angry swig of my

coffee.

         “I sense some childhood issues there, and I am a psych minor, so...”

she said taking her glasses off  putting one ear piece in her mouth, and started

writing on her napkin, “here's my diagnosis”.

         She slid me the napkin.

         Get laid.
         “Expert advice, indeed” I chuckled.

         

Thus my tumultuous relationship with Viola Ballard began. She happened to also

be a  junior English major, although she hadn't messed up like I did so she was two

years younger than me. We were good friends, great friends actually. I had found in

her someone that I could be vulnerable with. She often made fun of me and called

me “sissy- boy” when I showed any emotion other than manly anger, but it was

always with a warm smile.

         I never saw her boyfriend, but I knew she was involved with someone,

and that she had been since she started college. I knew he was older. That was all

I ever knew, she never really spoke of him often, and I never asked questions. I was

starting to look at Viola in a more romantic light. She was the only woman that

could ever, would ever, call me on my bullshit and tell me when I was acting

entitled.

                                                           ~
         

         I found her one afternoon  slumped over in a ball, sobbing. I stood in the

doorway in disbelief, I had never seen Viola cry. I couldn't understand why she was

crying. As far as I knew her family was well, school was good, and we hadn't

fought. I felt... uncomfortable. Like I was watching a moment that was private, and

at the same time I wanted to hold her and make everything better. She didn't hear

me come home and so I decided, maybe naively, to pretend that I didn't see her. I

went down to the convenience store and picked up a pint of Ben and Jerry's.


         I came back into the apartment my entrance louder than normal. And

she was there on the couch watching the Fairly Odd Parents, giggling.

         “Hey Bowers. How was work?”

         “Good. I brought you some ice cream.” I handed her the pint.

         “Chubby Hubby. My favorite, you know me so well.”

         I sat down beside her, and put my arm across the back of her

shoulders.
Our natural, neutral position.

                                                 ~
         

         “I wrote you a poem Bower's, wanna hear it?” Viola randomly exclaimed during one of our movie nights.

         “Sure”

         Viola stood, a very serious expression on her face.

         “There was a monkey named Sam.
         He like to eat the mango.
         He wore boxers, and with Pam,
         he liked to dance the Tango.”


         I snapped emphatically. “Bravo, V!”

         “Dedicated to my best bud, Aidan”


         I pulled her into my lap, not an uncommon position for us. As I pressed

play on “American Beauty” I felt her snuggle closer, tighter. Her head was tight

under my chin, I could smell her berry shampoo. I kissed the top of her head softly.

She looked up at me and smiled.

         “You're a creepy kid, Bowers.”

                                       ~

 



         On her twenty-first birthday I had decided I was going to treat her to a

night out. She had seemed normal in the several weeks since I caught her crying, I

did notice that she was home more often, and so I assumed there was a break up.

          I got to her apartment at 8, and her roommate Lydia let me in.

         “Well don't you clean up nice, A” Lydia remarked, looking me up and

down.  Lydia had a reputation as well, a slut.

         “Thanks Lydia.” I said a bit uncomfortable. I thought I was stylish in

black pants and black dress shirt with a lime green tie, apparently Lydia did to. “Is

Viola ready?”

         “Should be, I'll get her.” She winked at me as she left to go upstairs.

         Viola had started down the stairs and I was blown away by how beautiful

she was. Her hair was naturally curly, but usually in a frizzy ponytail, tonight it was

laying on her shoulders gracefully. She had on a  black dress that made her legs

look amazing and her breasts...

         “Eyes up here, Bowers”

         “You look stunning, V”

         As she came down the stairs I offered her my arm, and she took it, looking at my tie.

         “I like the whole punk rocker goes black tie thing you've got going on

here. So where are you taking me?”

         “I was thinking Da Luca's. How does Italian sound?”


         “It sounds great,” she let go of my arm and smoothed out her dress,

suddenly a little flustered, “but I really had my heart set on French for my birthday”.

          She gave me her little pout that was Kryptonite to all men.

         “French it is. For the birthday girl” She kissed my cheek, lingering longer

than normal.


         We had a wonderful dinner, and for the first time in weeks Viola seemed

to be genuinely happy. After dinner we walked downtown along the river. She

stopped for a minute to admire the selection of orchids that a flower vendor had.

         “It's so hard to find orchids this white.” She smiled.

         “Well, then you better keep this one forever.” I pulled it out and handed it

to her, having already paid the man.

         “Thank you, Aidan This really has been a spectacular birthday. Of

course I could have been getting trashed at Harvey's with the townies, and that

might have given you a run for your money”.

         “You know I love you, V. You're the best friend I've had in a long time”

         “Don't get all weepy on me, Aidan. That's my job.” She gave my

shoulder a playful shove, and I grabbed her arm and pulled her close to me. I

brushed the hair away from her face and stared into her deep brown eyes. I had

known she was beautiful, but I had never experienced that beauty until that

moment. Standing there with her body pressed close to mine I could feel her

beauty radiating through me like an electrical impulse. She made me feel alive.

         “So are you going to kiss me, or what Bowers?”

                                                           ~


         “You gonna eat that?” Viola leaned over took my slice of pizza from me.

         “Guess not.”

         “So, what do you think it was like to fight in the Colosseum? I mean it

would have been like going to a baseball game, except with a lot of blood.” She

chewed my pizza as she contemplated, undoubtedly, the combination of baseball

bats and chariots in her head.

         We walked to a little bench across from all the people, and sat down. I

put my arm around the back of her shoulders. It had become a natural position for

us over the years.

         “Viola?”

         “Hmm?”

         “I love you. I love this.”

         “Me too, Bowers”

         “Will you...um, well...will you move in with me when we get back to the
states?”

         She had looked a little panicked as I muddled my way through the

question, thinking I was proposing.

         “Sure, Bowers” she breathed a little sigh of relief and kissed me.

                                                         ~


         After spending all our savings in Europe we could only afford a studio

apartment on the ninth floor of an “artist's building” (which is my euphemism for

dilapidated ). We did manage to scrap together enough money for a king size bed,

which Viola loved. She loved to sleep. I loved to watch her sleep. I perched on my 

right elbow, staring at her lightly fluttering eylids.

         “Quit it Bower's. That's creepy. Go be productive.” She mumbled as she

kicked me out of bed.

         Since Viola had started her Master's program she's been exhausted all

the time. I figured that I'd do the nice boyfriend thing and make her a wholesome

breakfast. I ran down to the convenience store which specialized in booze and

lottery tickets, and hoped that they had at least a loaf of bread.

         I returned with the groceries and peaked into the bedroom to see Viola

sound asleep, snoring softly.


           I cracked open the half dozen almost expired eggs and set to making an

omelet with whatever we had in the fridge. Banana peppers, salsa, cheese and  half

of an avocado, which is exactly something Viola would eat.

         She came stumbling sleepily out of our bedroom wearing my Matrix tee shirt.

         “What's cookin', good lookin'?” she asked, her voice still raspy with sleep.

         “Breakfast for my scholar. I'm so proud of you, love.” I handed her the

omelet and some buttered toast.
         
“Thanks, Aidan” she smiled a little weaker than normal.


                                                           ~


         

Everything smells like her. No one has been here in weeks. We we're just out

walking, like we do every Saturday. Viola lost her balance while tying her shoe and

fell off the curb. The taxi driver didn't have time to react. She lived for  six weeks

after that.
         
         
I was back in the apartment to finish packing up her stuff to send it to her parents. I

had put off packing her personal belongings for days, and now I couldn't put it off

any longer. Laying on top was the orchid I had given her on her birthday. I fingered

the withered petals gentley. I sighed and pulled the pictures of her and Lydia off the

shelf above our bed, and her journal from her desk and put them in the box with her

books. I pulled out her copy of Pride and Prejudice.
         
She loved Austen, would have left me for Mr. Darcy in an instant.
         
I flipped through it smiling at her marginal commentary.
         “What a jerk, Darcy is!”
         “Go Elizabeth!”
         “Poor Jane.”
         

A picture I had never seen before slid out and fell to the floor, face down.

         In Viola's handwriting, in purple ink:  “Da Luca's 4/22/2000”

         I turned the picture over and realized that I was looking at the man I had

been competing with for the past eight years. The man she missed every day of

those eight years.  Viola had had more than a working relationship with Professor

Russo. That was obvious by the way she looked at him. The same way  I looked at

her. With utter devotion, love, and admiration. She was never mine.




The unseasonably cool rain fell in heavy drops that day. The lines of

mourners, clad in their black shrouds, snaked slowly around the open casket like a

colony of ants marching for their hill. Each held in their hands an intensely white

orchid (it was her favorite flower, you know) and as they passed, placed it in her

coffin. Even in death she still looked angelic. Her deep auburn hair was spread

around her head in carefully molded ringlets. Her silky skin was unblemished,

though the light and radiance she once possessed were gone. Her cherry lips were

softly smiling as if to reassure us all that everything was working according to plan.

And yet, there was one flaw. Her eyes were closed, hiding the warm chocolate

brown gaze that I knew so well.

         The pastor said what you would expect him to say, “As I walk through

the valley of death blah blah blah.” He spoke in a very somber and emotionless

voice, as if he had delivered this same speech everyday of his life. I couldn’t help

but grin because she was anything but somber; always crinkling her nose when I

kissed her; rubbing her feet together underneath the covers when she wanted to

make love; spoiling her dumb cat as if it was her flesh and blood; whispering

fiercely and winding her auburn hair into knots when she was angry; snorting when

she laughed too hard; glasses sliding down her nose and falling completely off her

face when reading a great book; wearing new skirts over worn out holy jeans;

walking around barefoot as often as possible; writing horrid poetry just to make me

laugh, poems about monkeys wearing underpants who were dancing the Tango;

sleeping with a blanket pulled up over her head; learning to write with her toes (after

breaking her arm) and having them covered in purple ink, (because black or blue ink

was too “drab”); sealing her letters with a cherry red kiss; keeping a journal (that I

was not allowed to read) with tea stains and lipstick kisses on its pages. On the

worn russet leather cover were patches of the places she had traveled. She made it

to Europe, in case you were wondering. We spent three years bumming around

Italy and Ireland and France and England, living off our savings.
         

She never cried, except once over you.
         

She died in a stark white hospital bed, tied up with tubes of fluid as if a great, hefty,

transparent spider was capturing her for its prey. The hospital lights sucked the

blush from her skin, her warmness evaporated into sallowness. As I held her fragile

hand she told me that I was her life, and everything she had ever wanted. I told her

she was lying. She feigned a smile. She lived for six more weeks, but somehow I

knew she had already let go. I offered her the devotion you could not-and yet she

loved you more.

                                                 Her Aidan