Short Story: Watercolor

Jenny drags her blueberry cream fingernails up and down the length of Sam’s sun-drenched spine and watches the peach fuzz follicles bubble up on either side. 

“I hear there’s always some surprise at these work parties.” Sam puckers her painted lips in the mirror, then shifts her eyes to Jenny. “Do you think we match too much? Like too many dark colors? I’ll change.” 

“Never too many dark colors.” Jenny grins and hits her vape pen, looking Sam up and down. “You always look amazing. I can’t believe we’re about to be at a party full of luxury matchmakers. I can’t believe you’re a freaking luxury matchmaker!” 

“Luxury matchmaker in training,” Sam corrects her with a wink. 

“And there’s no rain or radioactivity spikes on the forecast?” 

“Not at all.” 

The bus ride over smells like fresh sweat, rotting cabbage, and antiseptic, bumping along from tall brick and cement buildings cut through with soft shards of rainbow sun to a different place with shorter, stretchier houses and a broad, unbroken horizon. Clean. Crisp. Silent. Sam and Jenny’s steps echo on the sidewalk as they approach a sprawling beige stone house. 

Sam knocks rhythmically at the front door. Jenny feels butterflies at the sound. Sam feels lightning bugs. 

Silence. A minute passes. 

“Must not have heard.” Sam presses the doorbell. 

A couple more minutes seep by. Sam checks her phone. “This is definitely it—no one’s messaged about any changes.” She knocks again. 

“Should we call?” 

“Let me double-check a few things first.” 

Suddenly, the wooden doors click, heave, and swing open. The smell of jasmine wafts out, and a woman in flowing turquoise appears, her auburn curls shimmering in the sun as she looks Sam and Jenny up and down. 

“Finally,” she mutters quietly before presenting a polite smile. “Hi there. I’m Rebecca.” 

They follow Rebecca through a cavernous foyer into a bright room lined with cherrywood columns, sheer curtains, and velvet couches. Soothing piano swirls through the room, along with about fifteen women, all in different jewel-tone dresses and heels, with long, luscious hair. The women all laugh and sip sparkling wine, their colorful fingernails fluttering through the air with delicate hand gestures. 

“So, drinks are over there, and you’ve met most of the girls here. Everyone works for Dyad. Well, except your friend here—what did you say your name was?” 

“Jenny.” Jenny holds out her hand, but the host swivels to address the room instead, gently flicking the edge of her wine glass with the tip of a spoon. 

“Everyone, this is Samantha and her small friend, Jennifer. Say hello!” 

Jenny and Sam wave to the floral room of women, then head towards the sparkling wine, but a woman in a turmeric-yellow dress intercepts them. 

“Hello, you two. I’m Foray. I don’t think we’ve met before." Foray reaches out a slender hand and places it on Jenny’s shoulder. 

“Hi, I’m Jen—" 

“I’ve heard so much about you, Foray,” Sam interrupts excitedly. 

“Oh, I’m sure. But tell me, do you two live together?” Foray sips her drink, eyeing them. 

“Yeah, we do. We have an apartment on the East Side,” Jenny replies. “What about you?” 

“Oh, what’s that like? I don’t spend any time over there.” 

“Much smaller than this—” Jenny glances at the table of half-filled wine glasses. 

“We’re thinking about moving soon,” Sam adds. 

“Have you heard of The Salted Violet?” Jenny asks, fondly picturing the hazy glow of dim purple lamps and fake flowers dangling from the ceiling. "It's our favorite bar." It was the first place she and Sam had kissed all those years ago. 

“No, I haven’t.” Foray looks at them both like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “I should go, though, yes?” 

“If you like dive bars,” Sam states casually. “Where do you like to go out?” 

Foray shifts in her heels; her turmeric dress falls casually over to one side. The rest of the party bumbles around them like colorful shapes inside a kaleidoscope. “Hmm. Well, I like a good cocktail—a good lawyer bar. That’s where you meet some of the best clients. You know, the rich ones, ready to spend a lot to find the love of their life. As if.” Foray glances at her nails. “So, are you two, you know?” 

This question again. Jenny loves it; Sam hates it. It gives Jenny butterflies; Sam: moths. 

“Just really good friends,” Jenny lies, so Sam doesn’t have to. She knows how private Sam is. 

“Right, sure.” Foray yawns and saunters away like a rush of desert perfume. “Rebecca? I’m famished, darling. Can we start?” 

“Yes, everyone. Please, come to the dinner table,” Rebecca peers at Sam and Jenny as she speaks. “You’ll see your name in front of the seat you’ve been assigned. Our arrangement matters, so there’s no switching seats.” Rebecca’s demeanor shifts; she grins and looks sheepishly around the room. “You know who you are.” 

Jenny wonders what her ornament will say. Samantha’s Small Friend? When she arrives at the table, she’s relieved to read, “Guest of Samantha.” But she’s also seated far away from Sam. 

Jenny watches Foray and Rebecca lean in toward each other, giggling and gesturing, their turmeric and turquoise dresses flowing into each other like watercolors. The tips of their fingers seem to touch for a flutter, a moment, a flash. Almost too quick to be seen. Their faces draw close, smiles blurring into each other, lipstick edges grazing. 

How strong is this wine? Jenny wonders. She makes a mental note to slow down. 

“Dinner is served!” Rebecca calls out to the room, lounging casually in her dinner chair. 

Dinner comes out on seven different trays. Savory scents with hints of sweet, tangy, and spicy dance around the room. Jenny’s mouth waters. It smells like fresh food, she thinks to herself. She tries to get a better view. Soon, six small dishes rest in a clean circle on the plate in front of her, arranged with what appear to be tiny flowers, intricate herbs, and transparent slices of fleshy fruit—with a seared, circular piece of meat in the middle. It looks like fresh food, too. Jenny can’t remember how long it’d been since she’d eaten food that wasn’t clearly made in a lab. 

“What is this?” she asks out loud, embarrassed almost as soon as she hears herself. 

The woman beside her laughs. “Aren’t you eager?” 

“What?” 

“Dig in!” Foray shouts. 

Jenny looks around the room, then hesitantly begins slicing into the sides and bringing them to her mouth. They taste buttery, flaky, and rich. A few are sweet and spicy at the same time, crunching gently between her teeth. Do rich people just have better lab foods? She wonders. 

She looks over and sees Foray holding messy pieces of dinner between her fingers and feeding them to Rebecca. The women’s edges start to bleed together. 

Jenny blinks, takes another sip of wine, and leans forward to look at Sam, who is elbow-deep in conversation, slicing the food on her plate and nodding intently at two women dressed in burgundy and mint. One of them—Naomi—squeezes Sam’s thigh under the table, but Jenny can’t see. 

Jenny stares anxiously at the thing that looks like meat in the middle of her plate as forks and knives clang in an angry melody around her. It can’t be real steak—right? She takes a sip of wine. Cows have been extinct for years. The clanging grows louder, slower. She looks over at Rebecca and Foray feeding each other, smearing spilled sauce across each other’s lips and kissing it all away. Are they panting? 

“Do you not like your dinner, Jennifer?” Rebecca and Foray are suddenly staring at her. 

“Oh, no, it’s great. I’m just taking my time.” The room falls silent. All the women stare at Jenny. 

“You haven’t even tried the main course,” Foray purrs through pursed lips. “You’ll like it.” 

“Go ahead, Jen, it’s amazing,” drunken, happy words float from Sam’s mouth. Jenny’s stomach curls, but she takes a deep breath and cuts into the soft portion sitting in front of her. 

The room is silent as her knife screeches against the plate. She brings a fragrant, oily bite to her mouth and wonders if the sound of her chewing is as loud outside of her head as it is inside. Potent, overwhelmingly familiar flavors fill her mind. 

Jenny chews and smiles, expecting the party to return to its usual bubbling sounds and motions. But sixteen sets of eyes remain glued to her, along with their sixteen empty plates. She swallows the bite. “Wow—it’s so realistic,” her voice squeaks. 

“Of course it is, silly. Cows only went extinct for poor people.” 

Nausea punches into Jenny’s stomach. She stares at her plate. “What?” 

“Now finish up,” Rebecca instructs smoothly. “We’re waiting.” 

With the weight of too much wine and too many eyes on her, Jenny turns back to her plate and continues eating, bite by bite. As she puts the last bite in her mouth, Rebecca stands up and starts loudly clapping. The rest of the women follow suit. Jenny looks around the table and sees Sam clapping, too, so she hesitantly joins. 

As the clapping fades, Jenny turns to the woman next to her. “What’s going on?” she asks. The woman smiles, puts a finger to her lips, and nods towards Rebecca. 

“Ladies. Thank you for being here to welcome Samantha and Jennifer to Dyad. Now that their first dinner is complete, it’s time for compliments.” The women bustle in excitement as a waiter brings out a tray studded with seventeen small, liquid lines of crimson. 

“Foray first.” Rebecca brushes the hair back from Foray’s face. 

Foray grins, then bends her golden face to the tray and snorts one of the red lines. As she does, the other women shout compliments at her: “Your skin is stunning! I’m jealous of your poise. When you look at me, I get wet!” 

Foray wipes the dark liquid from beneath her nose and passes the tray to Rebecca. As the tray goes around, the compliments vary in degrees of envy, kindness, sensuality, and authenticity. 

The tray reaches Sam. To Jenny’s surprise, Sam snorts without question. The women all shout about Sam’s sensual height and mysterious mannerisms. “I want to see you naked!” Naomi cries. Jenny glares at Naomi, but the plate is suddenly in front of her, along with everyone’s gaze. 

Sam nods and smiles at Jenny in encouragement. Fuck it. Jenny puts a finger to one nostril and inhales. She hears Sam shout, “You’re my best friend!” as the smell of blood fills Jenny’s nose and seeps into her throat. She tries hard not to gag. 

The women remain silent for a breath, then burst out laughing and shouting innocuous things about how Jenny seems nice and sweet. Her cheeks warm like rust as she passes the plate. 

“Was that cow blood?” Jenny fights through her hazy drunkenness to cough out the question. Foray and Rebecca both giggle. 

“It was all of our blood, silly. This is an initiation, after all.” Foray and Rebecca turn to Tennison, seated next to them, and begin giggling watercolors at her: eyelashes and fingertips and breath. Jenny can’t help but stare at them, watching as they blur together. 

“Do you want to join us, Samantha’s girlfriend-not-girlfriend, Jennifer?” Foray gestures at her with a coral fingernail. “Since you’re not, you know, together or whatever?” 

“And since she seems to like watching us,” Rebecca laughs into Tennison’s neck. Her laughter quickly turns into breathy whispers.

Jenny suddenly realizes a dull sensation coming from her arm. She looks down; three small, superficial cuts intersect in a sloppy triangle on her skin, studded with fresh blood. When did that happen? She looks around and sees a similar mark on the woman beside her, on Sam, on Rebecca, and on all the women. They all smile, eyeing each other sensuously. 

“Do you want us to caress it for you?” the woman beside Jenny asks with more kindness than she’d shown all night. 

“Um, no. No, thank you—but thank you.” Jenny’s body feels cold and heavy. “Do you know where the restroom is?” Jenny’s chair scrapes against the hardwood floors as she stands. She peers over at Sam, who has Naomi’s arm pressed against her mouth, while Jacklyn grabs at Sam’s arm. Jenny looks at all the women forming a circle, arm to mouth, slurping, connected, eyes closed. 

She backs away from the looming wooden table and away from the circle. Giant silk curtains billow against the harsh, fading sun, framing the women like a Renaissance painting. Jenny almost trips as she takes in the sight. 

“Sam?” she begs, but Sam is lost in Naomi. Jenny rushes over to Sam, grabs her gently on the shoulder, and whispers frantically in her ear. “Please come with me.” Sam casually brushes Jenny’s arm away without opening her eyes. 

“Sam?” Jenny pleads again, backing out of the dining room. She looks at Sam one more time, then runs into the foyer, towards the front doors, and pushes into them. They slide open easily, letting her into the cool sunset air. She runs down the street to the bus stop, then keeps running to the next bus stop, and the next. 

Four bus stops in, she stops, wheezing as sweat cools along her hairline. Her sides ache, and the air is sharp in her lungs. A bus lurches toward her as the last of the sun’s rays fade below the horizon. She scans her pass, sits down on a blue plastic seat, and looks out at trees swaying calmly nearby. The bus heaves forward. Jenny pulls out her phone and calls Sam, but there’s no answer. 

Sam doesn’t come home that night. Or the next morning. Jenny calls and calls, leaving message after message. 

Jenny goes to the police the next morning. The following day, they call her back and tell her that Sam doesn’t want to speak to her. Jenny drinks a lot that night. 

Two days later, Jenny takes a bus back to that sprawling house. She calls Sam’s phone and listens carefully for its ring, but the neighborhood is silent. Crisp. Clean. Light-headed and covered in stress sweat, Jenny walks to the front door of the house, takes a breath, and rings the doorbell. No answer. Seconds turn into minutes. She knocks on the door and calls Sam’s phone again. Nothing. Doorbell. Nothing. Knocks again. Nothing. Calls again. Nothing. Jenny screams Sam’s name into the neighborhood. Nothing. 

A few days after that, Jenny scrolls through Dyad’s website and sees Samantha listed as a new matchmaker. Sam looks different, like she fits into her body better than she used to. 

Jenny memorizes the cost of Dyad’s dating packages. She works double shifts at the pub and gets a second job as a secretary. She saves up, reusing everything, keeping it simple, keeping it boring. But sometimes, on sunny days, she splurges on a bus ticket to that house to knock some more, ring some more, and scream some more. For Sam, she tells herself. 

After a few months, Jenny saves up enough for one week’s worth of matchmaking services. She requests Samantha as her matchmaker and hesitantly signs Dyad’s contract, searching for any hidden clauses. She counts the days to her first meet-up.

When the day finally arrives, she meets Sam at a coffee shop. Jenny hardly recognizes her in her plum business casual attire, walking with her full height. When their eyes meet, something in Sam’s demeanor cracks for a second before recomposing. 

“Hi, Jennifer.” Sam’s lips form a soft but hesitant smile. "I'm happy we could meet today." Her voice is a craft cocktail: smooth, cold, more intoxicating than expected. 

“Sam, you remember me, don’t you?” 

“I’m sorry. I prefer to go by Samantha.” 

“Of course.” Jenny struggles to maintain composure. “I’m sorry. I love your full name. I just—I miss you, and I’m worried about you.” Jenny knows she doesn’t have long, but she has a plan. She pulls out a hairpin with a sharp edge and presses it in a shallow pattern along her arm: just enough for a tiny triangle of droplets to appear. “Whatever it takes to get you back.” 

She presents her forearm to Samantha like a gift, right in the middle of the emerald green and gold coffee shop playing eclectic world jazz. No one seems to notice, except Sam, who remains poised and calm.

“Jennifer, it’s very strict Dyad company policy that we don’t date clients.” Samantha glances down at Jenny’s arm, grabs a napkin, and presses it over the blood. "So instead, let’s talk about what you want in a partner.”

“You, Samantha. I want you back,” Jenny pleads, grabbing the napkin and crumpling it in her hand. Her stomach crumples along with it. “What happened to you?” 

“Jennifer, this isn’t about me.” Samantha’s features remain soft and blank, “and as I said, it’s strict Dyad policy that we don’t date clients. So, let’s step back.” Samantha shrinks elegantly against her chair. “What do you want out of a relationship?” 

Jenny isn’t sure how to answer. A familiar feeling of shame squeezes at her throat. Were we ever really together? she wonders. 

She thinks about leaving, then stares at her ex: all glowing skin and cool-shouldered confidence. Jenny inhales deeply. “Can I get an application to work at Dyad?” 

Samantha twinges, pauses, then nods. “Yes. You can apply here.” She hands Jenny a card with nothing but a red triangle etched on it. “But we should probably assign you another matchmaker.” She floats out of the café as effortlessly as she came in. 

Jenny’s heart pounds in her ears as she stares at the card. 

A moment later, Foray walks through the café doors in a turmeric yellow silk pantsuit with a plunging neckline and nothing underneath but layered, slender golden chains. 

“Hello, darling,” Foray purrs. She sits in front of Jenny and grabs Jenny’s arm below the freshly cut symbol, pressing in until a small drop of blood spills onto one of her perfectly polished, coral nails. “I was hoping you’d change your mind.” Foray brings her fingernail to her mouth and casually licks the blood off, her thickly lined eyes raising at the edges. 

Jenny’s throat feels dry. Outside, radioactivity-level alarms begin to wail and scream. 

Foray’s eyes flicker out the window. “Huh—that wasn't on the forecast for today. I guess we’re stuck here for a while.” She turns back to Jenny. “Oh, well. More time to talk about you.” She grins. 

It gives Jenny butterflies.