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In his defense, when it comes to illness, he’s biologically prone to worrying too much, courtesy of his hypochondriac mother. And, well, he doesn’t know the real reason I ended up puking in the bathroom at Aquavella.
I mean, how do you tell your boyfriend you got sick because of the painting you saw? In hindsight, even I feel like I overreacted. Seeing myself in one random painting that some guy painted shouldn’t produce such a physical reaction.
It’s just a coincidence. Nothing more.
Me: I’m fine, Matt. It was just a weird blip of nausea. Nothing to be concerned about.
Matt: Okay, sweetheart. Getting ready for takeoff now. Talk soon.
I toss my phone back onto the coffee table and scroll through the channels for another few minutes before I set down the remote and get off the couch.
It’s Saturday. I should be doing something fun. Something that gets me out of my house. Something, anything, besides sitting on my couch.
I think about calling Lily or my mom or even a few of my girlfriends from work, but being with people seems like too much work.
Instead, I decide to go it alone, take a little walk, and see where the day takes me.
Maybe I’ll grab some lunch at my favorite diner up the street. Or maybe I’ll be adventurous and take the subway toward the city for a stroll through Washington Square Park. The day is an untraveled road, and I get to choose the destination.
Before I talk myself out of it, I get dressed, put on a little makeup, fix my long locks into a ponytail, and bundle up in my favorite pea coat, scarf, and boots.
I tap on one of my favorite playlists, put my earbuds in my ears and my phone in my back pocket, and head out the door. With Camila Cabello serenading me, I step outside, and the frigid February air punches me right in the face. If the bitter wind had a fist, I’d officially have a black eye. I adjust my cream scarf to cover my mouth and nose and force my feet to move across the sidewalk.
Shit. Maybe I should’ve just stuck with Netflix?
It doesn’t take long for me to realize the subway station is closer than the diner, and I let the harsh winter weather lead my way down the stairs to the waiting platform and onto the next train.
Looks like a trip into the city it is…
Packed to the brim with other Saturday-goers, I stand in the center of the metal-enclosed cart, my fingers clutching a silver pole for balance, and let my eyes rake discreetly over my ride companions.
A family with two small children and a stroller takes up the entire back wall. A group of giggling teenage girls stare down at their phones and take up nearly an entire row of seats on the left side. And a couple holding hands and smiling into each other’s eyes stand to the right of me.
But it’s the couple that I can’t seem to stop watching.
He reaches out, brushes her auburn hair out of her eyes, and her pink-coated smile grows.
They’re so beautiful, so in-the-moment, so lost in each other, it kind of hurts to witness.
Not because I don’t like seeing people so lost in love that the world around them dissolves, but because I do. I love to see it. I just don’t like to think about how much I want it for myself.
Which leads my thoughts down a dangerous path toward that fucking painting and the carefree version of me inside it and back into the emotional tailspin I’ve been trying desperately to ignore.
The subway screeches to another stop and people start filing off, but the couple stays rooted to their spot and fixated on each other’s eyes. Their decision to stay solidifies my decision to go, and I walk off the subway in the name of self-preservation.
I don’t even know what stop I’ve chosen, but I don’t care. I’ll make it work.
Once I make my way up the stairs and onto the sidewalk, the surroundings give me déjà vu, and it isn’t the good kind. I feel sick almost instantly, and the taste of tuna flashes in my mouth even though I haven’t eaten it since.
Of course, I took this fucking stop.
The gallery is a scant two blocks away, and I hate myself for not paying enough attention to end up anywhere but here.
Hell, even the claustrophobic crowds of Times Square would’ve been a better option than this. At least I could have popped into M&M’S World and left with five pounds of chocolate I don’t need.
After that night at the gallery, I’ve resisted the urge to find out anything about Ansel Bray. I told myself the girl in his painting wasn’t really like me, and it was all just a freakishly weird and mind-blowing coincidence. It was for the best that I retreat back to my art ignorant bubble and go on about my life.
