Sea Salt Bailey Quinn
“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it—you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.” — Richard Siken On the first day, your naked back exposed as you slump down, your shirt inching up to introduce your bare skin to the cold wall—that is when you will notice it. You won’t know how you could have possibly missed it. Perhaps it is because you never had your heart broken while boiling pasta. Or been dumped while chopping vegetables. Or you were never told that they don’t love you anymore and maybe never did while measuring out what you thought to be sugar, but turned out to be salt instead. Perhaps before this moment you have never had your heart broken in your kitchen, but you can’t say that anymore. And somehow even when the words fall off of their tongue, even as the glass shatters as it slips from your hand; even as you back into the wall as they run from the scene of the crime, you will only notice the paint. How it is peeling. How the flakes are pooling onto your hardwood flooring. How it overlaps onto the wall, crests and troughs of shaky handy work reminiscent of fresh snow banks in February. And you will remember painting it with them. You will remember collecting color swatches from the paint section of Home Depot and you will remember choosing “Sea Salt’’ instead of “Cream” because you thought “Sea Salt” sounded more grown up and more fitting for a house of new beginnings and crown moulding; although you didn’t know what crown moulding even was, but they did, and you loved them for always knowing what you didn’t. Like where your keys are, or how to change the smoke detector batteries, or how to leave you in the middle of the kitchen you painted together. On the second day, you will not look past your feet. You will tell yourself this was for the best, you are better off, it was bound to 32
happen, you should make them regret ever leaving you, but you won’t be able to look past your feet. You won’t be able to look in the mirror, because you will see the shirt they left behind, three sizes too big, hanging off of your drooping shoulders, sleeves still damp from wiping the tears. You will see the bags under your eyes like rotting figs, and then you will remember reading the comparison of eye bags to rotting figs in a poem somewhere, and you will think you can smell the death and decay radiating off of your heart. You will only be able to look at your feet, and yet you will not notice the paint, or at the very least you will allow it. You will ignore the way the layers of paint chips will coat the floor of the kitchen —“Sea Salt” will appear to be coming in, overtaking the “Robin’s Egg” blue walls, a tide of only foam, sucking in the sea and leaving only mist. After the first week, you will learn how to make coffee again. You will take a shower, and still get back into their shirt, but at the very least you will put on fresh underwear and fuzzy socks. You will learn how to play house. You will do the dishes. You will bake banana bread. You will fill the hole in the bed with new pillows. You will consider getting a cat or a haircut. You will probably get neither and just bake more banana bread. Your steps will slow and slip as the white paint begins to fill every room up to your ankles. You will fill the dishwater, and you will use an old mug to scoop out the paint as it sloshes onto the dishes and fills the detergent capsule with milky liquid. Even when the frayed threads on the hems of your jeans become glazed, and harden over in “Sea Salt,” you will not acknowledge the tides of white paint lapping at your ankles. You will be wondering what they are up to. You will be wondering if they have moved on, if they are handling it just fine. You will want them to be happy and you will not know why it hurts so badly. And then you will realize the mug you have been using was their favorite. You got it for them two birthdays ago. You will not believe they left it, just like that. Left you, just like that. And then it will hit you all over again. And it will feel like you have been shot. Hand to the chest, tears collecting in your
