I pushed past Noah and rushed back into my bedroom. I put my hands on my hips and glared at the bed, glared at the walls, empty and dead, glared at the bottles of germ killer. I raced back into the lounge and did the same thing, scanning everything around me angrily. As if it all offended me. Which it did. I scanned the corners of all the rooms again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything—a pot plant, some greenery, something alive to tell me that a zombie didn’t live here. But there was nothing. A crushing feeling in my throat as the monster in my belly rose up into it, forcing tears into my eyes as well. I collapsed onto the couch, utterly defeated. Everything that had made me feel alive and buoyant only a short while ago had been sucked out of me by this place and the realization that I wasnothinglike the person I thought I was. My head fell forward and I put my elbows on my knees, unable to hold up the weight of this realization on my own. I felt Noah sit on the couch next to me.
“This is who I am,” I said, hanging my head even lower, as the invisible weight pushed down on me. “I’m not the person on my list.”
There was a pause, as if Noah was gathering his thoughts. I could almost feel him pulling them towards him, as if they had been scattered across the room itself.
“This isnotwho you are.” He reached over and wrapped his big hand over my tightly clasped ones.
“It is. Look around, Noah.” I raised my head and started pointing at things. “I’m not pink. Or purple, or sequined and bright.” I shook my head. “I am beige and brown and dry, spiceless chicken breasts in little frozen containers.” As I said this, I could feel all the previous ideas about myself being painfully ripped away from me, dissolving into the bland, muted tones of my surroundings. The once-bright colors swallowed up by the insipid.
“You are pink!” he said firmly, squeezing my hand. “And you’re not spiceless chicken breasts. You’re chilis that are too hot for mere mortals to eat and that get you a photo on a wall of fame!”
I shook my head. “I’m not. Can’t you see, nothing about this place is even vaguely pink and chili-ish.” I pushed Noah’s hand away and stood up. I walked into the middle of the room, and threw my hands in the air. The feeling in my belly had grown so big that it had pushed itself out into the world and into this room, and I wasn’t able to control it or swallow it back down.
“Look! There are no plants here. There is not a single sign of life in this place. Not even a fresh bloody head of lettuce, or a real vegetable in the fridge. Even those are dead and frozen and boxed and packaged. And this room! Look at it. It’s as if someone—me, apparently—went out of their way to find the most boring, muted tones to paint the walls. And these surfaces, de-cluttered, de-contaminated, de-germed, de-everything! Like a hospital. This place is a bloody hospital. And I hate hospitals. So why would I live here?”
I rushed into my bedroom again, Noah followed and I took up a position in the middle of the room. I repeated my action, throwing my arms into the air. “And look at this. A bedroom is meant to be a person’s sanctuary. Look around. What the hell does this say about me if this is my supposed sanctuary!” I flung the wardrobe open now, my feelings running away with me. “Look! Look! What do you see?”
Noah came up next to me and peered over my shoulder, I turned to face him and raised my brows. He didn’t say anything. “Well, what do you see?” I pressed.
Noah ran his hand over the clothes inside the cupboard. “I see the same thing.”
“Exactly. You see the same thing over and over again. Repeated. Slight color variations, but the same thing. I must wear the same clothes every single day. Beige, gray, navy or black slacks. White, gray, navy or black button-up shirt. And look at these shoes, they’re utterly hideous. I clearly choose comfort over looks, that’s for sure.”
“Well, maybe you need to be . . . practical? For your job? Perhaps you’re on your feet a lot.”
“Practical? I’m a graphic designer or a copywriter, I’m sure I sit all day and I . . .” I paused. “Wait, I’m not a creative. I can’t be.” I face-palmed and held my head in my hands. “Oh God. How is this possible? That I got everything so wrong?”
“Hey, hey.” Noah reached up for my shoulder again, but this time I sought no comfort from it at all. I pulled away.
“No. I got it all wrong. This is who I am.” I walked back into the lounge and pulled the list out. “And as for this!” I held it in the air. “It’s all crap. Made-up stuff. Imaginary stuff, I’m not . . .a good friend.” I read off the list. “My neighbors don’t think so, anyway. In fact, you could go as far as saying that my neighbor hates me!”
“I’m sure she doesn’t ha—” Noah tried to interject, but I cut him off.
“And I’m certainly not creative and fashionable, you’ve seen my wardrobe. No hippies in sight. And I don’t like colors! The only color I like is beige, apparently. I don’t like plants, or pictures or photos or anything like that!” I looked back at the list and huffed. “Feminine?! HA! Nothing feminine about that wardrobe or this apartment. And I’m not brave—look at me, I can’t even handle a germ, it seems. Who owns that many disinfectants? Me, apparently. Zen Small. Non-adventurous Zen Small.”
“Stop!” Noah said, coming towards me. But I backed away. I was overcome by a new feeling now. The one that had started in my belly had morphed into something else now.Rage.Rage and hurt, and it wanted to lash out. I looked at the list once more before ripping it up. I shredded it and let the little pieces fall to the floor, as all the things I had thought about myself fell away too.
“Don’t do that,” Noah said.
“Why? None of it is me.” I walked backwards, my shoulder blades hitting the cold, hard beige wall. I slid down onto the floor, pulling my knees towards me and gripping them tightly.
“I got it so wrong,” I hissed.
Noah put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me towards him. This was the closest we had ever been.
“You don’t have to have got it wrong,” he said softly.
But something about that statement made me furious. It was hard to say what. I flicked my head up and glared at him.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that you don’t have to be this. You can be the person you thought you were, that I know you to be. This doesn’t have to be you.”
“But it is me!” I said, getting riled up.
He shook his head. “No. It’s not.”
“Yes. It is,” I shot back.
