When I See You

Jason spotted her at the rail, waiting for him, but something in the way she held herself made him slow his steps. The crowd pressed around her, shifting, restless forcing her hands to wrap tight around the metal. She kept leaning forward, as if the plane passengers would flood into the airport sooner if she strained enough. The doors slid open and closed. Men came through, women, kids with stuffed animals, business suits. She stayed on her toes.

He walked slowly, the weight of his duffel slung over one shoulder, his camo uniform, slightly wrinkled from the flight. His dog tags caught the light and shone as people stared like he didn’t belong there, and he didn’t, not yet. For a heartbeat, she didn’t recognize him, the posture, the stillness, but then he smiled, and for a second, it was just the sound of her running toward him. As the image of her became clearer, he became more and more appreciative of his unit realignment.

He let go of the strap, and his bag hit the floor. When she reached him, her body slammed into his, and he lifted her, spun her until they both laughed. She kissed him, her lips struggling to contain her smile. He held her with his arms tight around her waist. Her face buried in his neck and inhaled, surprised for a flicker at how different he smelled without the familiar burn lingering beneath the detergent. She said his name over and over, and he could feel her voice unpacking the weight he didn’t realize he had in his lungs. The crowd flowed past them, but no one turned. Jason kept turning her, slow now, until she pressed her forehead against his, and he stopped.

“You’re here,” she said.

“I’m here.”

She buried her face in his neck. He smelled her hair and held her until she pulled away.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They walked fast through the sliding doors. The air was warmer outside. She took his hand and squeezed it until they reached the car. She drove quickly through the airport lanes, one hand on the wheel, the other in his. The windows were down, and the air blew her hair back.

“You wouldn’t believe what I started while you were gone,” she said. “I found this studio near the river, and they let me rent a corner. I simply can’t stop painting. Oils mostly, but sometimes ink. I’ve been obsessed with faces lately. Not real faces, but broken ones. You know, when the light hits like…”

He looked at her mouth moving. He watched the sun on her cheek. He loved how her hair was shining as the breeze carried it all around her.

“I can’t wait to show you,” she said. “It’s strange, but it makes me feel better, like I can breathe. While you were gone…”

He pressed the ring in his pocket with his thumb.

She looked at him and smiled. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m glad to be back.”

The road opened wide. Trees bent over the shoulders. She kept talking.

When they reached her apartment, he carried his bag up the stairs he hadn’t seen in months. She unlocked the door, and he ducked inside, just as he always had. The place smelled like turpentine. Canvases were leaning against the walls, paints spread on the table, brushes standing in jars.

“Don’t look yet,” she said. She quickly pushed a half-finished canvas against the wall with her foot. “I’ll show you later.”

He sat on the couch. She dropped beside him and buried herself between his arm and torso, picking at her fingernails.

“I missed you so much,” she said.

“I missed you.”

They stayed that way, the street sounds below, her hand rested on his chest. He thought about how small she felt against him. She thought about nothing and closed her eyes.

“It smells like turpentine in here,” he said.

She laughed. “It always does now. I hardly notice it anymore.” He felt the weight of her shoulder and kissed her hair.

“I’ll clean it up later,” she said. “I didn’t want you to walk into a mess.”

“It’s fine.”

They sat like that for a while, breaths synchronizing. She curled her fingers in his shirt.

“I missed you so much,” she said again.

“I missed you.”

She shifted and looked at him. “Do you really want to see what I’ve been working on?” He nodded.

She stood and went to the table. She lifted a canvas and set it on the chair. She angled it toward him and paused for a second before she backed away. The paint was heavy, a face in broad strokes, the eyes dark and smeared. She stood beside it, gripping the hem of her shirt.

“I don’t know if it’s finished,” she said. “None of them are, really. I keep going back.”

He studied it. The mouth was crooked, the colors bleeding.

“It’s big,” he said.

“Too big?”

“Uh, no.”

She smiled a little. “It’s supposed to feel broken and cold. Like when someone is trying to speak but can’t. Do you see it?”

He leaned in closer, but his eyes drifted to her bare shoulder where the strap of her dress had slipped, the faint sheen of paint near her collarbone. The room felt too warm.

He closed his eyes, nodded, and sat back.

She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she pulled another canvas from the wall. He watched as the light caught her hair when she turned toward the next one. There was a small smudge of blue on her wrist. She talked with her hands, tracing invisible lines, her voice soft and bright. He watched her mouth move and thought how she said everything like it mattered. This one was sharper, streaks of red over gray.

“I was angry that day,” she said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about, well, everything. But then I thought maybe anger could still be beautiful. Maybe not beautiful. Alive. You know?” She bursts into laughter that made him jolt. A thin stroke of red shimmered at the edge, and something in his chest tightened, and he forced a steady breath before she could notice.

“It’s… red,” he said.

She tilted her head, searching his face. “Yeah. It is.”

He stood and crossed to her. He kissed her temple and put his hand on her back. She leaned into him.

“Can’t we just sit for a while together like this?” he asked.

“I love when you look at them,” The corners of her mouth pinched into a smile.

He squeezed her side.

She broke away to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and offered him one.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She drank hers slowly, talking about the studio near the river, the light in the mornings, and how the other painters argued over brushes. He listened to her voice but watched the wine move in her glass. The dark red clung to the rim and slid down. When she laughed, he smiled. When she reached for his hand, he took it.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said.

“I’m glad to be here,” he said.

She brought another canvas from the wall. Blue and white, the figure with no face, arms stretched. She set it down and stood beside it. He stayed back.

“Well?” she said.

He stepped closer. He looked at it for a long time. He touched the frame with his thumb, glancing at her. Her hair brushed her cheek when she tilted her head, waiting. The light hit her eyes in a way he didn’t remember, sharper somehow. She looked like she belonged in that room, the drop cloths, the half-clean brushes, the streaks of color on the floor. He wanted to tell her she looked beautiful, but it didn’t seem like the right thing to say. He stared at the canvas again. The blue bled into the white until he couldn’t tell what was. The faceless figure seemed to reach for something just out of sight.

She crossed her arms. “You don’t get it.” He didn’t answer. She showed a quiet smile, almost kind. “You’re trying, though.” He smiled a little, not sure why. The silence stretched thin between them. She still carried that brightness from talking about her paintings, something quick and warm in her voice that made him feel slower by comparison. The light shifted on the painting, her reflection blurring in the glass. He thought of how soft her skin had felt in the car, how small she’d looked in his arms at the airport. He yearned for that again, the simple thing. The easy thing.

“It’s neat,” he said.

Her eyes flicked to him. She pressed her lips together.

“Neat.” she repeated.

He nodded. She folded her arms. The room was quiet.

“You don’t see it,” she said.

“I see it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Damn it, what do you want me to see?”

She folded her arms tighter, hugging her body.

He shifted. “You used to be different.”

She blinked.

“Before. You didn’t talk in riddles. You didn’t paint ghosts. You were just you. You did stuff that was real, not this… stuff.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I loved her.”

Her voice broke. “I had to change. While you were gone. This—” she gestured to the painting, “this is how I breathed.”

He shook his head, “What does that even mean? You breathe with your lungs, not damn paint.”

Her face twisted. “Don’t act dense.”

“It’s stupid,” he said.

Her breath hitched.

He grabbed arm, “I love you.”

She gave a laugh, another one of those unfamiliar loud laughs. “No. You love the girl you had before you left. You don’t love me.”

His hand went to his pocket. He pulled the ring, held it out. She stared, cheeks wet, shaking her head,

“Not like this.”

The ring trembled in his hand. He set it on the table. She touched the ring with her fingertip and pulled her hand back, and he said, low,

“Come here.”

She froze for a moment, shoulders tight, then moved toward him, slow, deliberate, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, her cheek pressing to his chest, her shoulders trembling just enough to make him tighten his grip. He pressed his lips to the side of her face, then the crown of her head, and she shifted, twisting slightly. He leaned closer, forehead against hers.

“Stop moving,” he said, voice rough. She flinched, fingers digging into the couch, and he moved closer, chest to hers, brushing hair from her cheek, tilting his head toward hers. She pulled back slightly, her eyes flicking to the canvas leaning against the wall, to the brushes scattered on the table, to the ring between them, then back to him. Her hands gripped the edge of the couch, tense, and he caught them lightly in his own before letting them fall.

She trembled, and he pressed her against him again, hand sliding to her waist, and she tried to move back, tiny, quick motions, and he closed the space, chest to chest, lips near hers, and she jerked away, eyes wide, a sharp inhale breaking the quiet.

He stopped just short, neither of them speaking, until he let go completely and stepped back, grabbing the ring from the table.

She sank onto the couch, listening only to his fading footsteps and the door clicking behind her. Outside, the streets glistened with rain, neon lights reflected on wet asphalt, and he drove without thought until he found a bar, stepped inside, the smell of beer and smoke hit him, a glass slid across the counter, and he drank, the ring spinning once on the worn wood before falling flat.