At that moment, we both stopped. I was so fired up. She'd been adamant, so stubborn and unwavering, teetering at the edge of her good sense. My heart was pounding wildly. The vein on the side of her neck was ever-present; it only showed when she got really mad. I clenched and unclenched my left hand to repress its trembling. The tension in our new one-bedroom apartment was palpable. It made the place seem even tinier.
Dara was steely-eyed. Her pretty mouth had flecks of white at the corners. Strands of normally auburn hair were dark-brown, moist with perspiration and matted to her cheek. Her lovely breasts were heaving as she tried to control her breathing. Our words still hung in the claustrophobic air, as evidenced by the ringing in my ears.
The slash of paint drying to my fiancé's bicep and right boob was called Lemon Yellow Dewdrop. A neon ribbon wound itself 'round her wrist, down to her fingertips where it dripped onto the newspaper we'd used to line the hardwood floor. Splattered across the front of my Giants t-shirt—soaking through to the skin—was a color known as Big Red Barn.
In the next instant chairs might fly. New dishware risked becoming airborne as well. There were likely to be further taunts and jeers, a good chance of feet stomping and hair pulling, a high probability of more paint flung, and even an errant knee to a sensitive region. Dara scowled and I glowered right back. The apartment was shrouded in desperate silence apart from a
drip
,
drip
,
drip
of paint from her fingertips.
Summer stings and sweat burns. We'd just moved in, still waiting on the power company to hook us up to the grid. Already, the heat was getting to the two of us -- straight out of college and moving in together ... nuts right? Maybe it had been a little impulsive. At least that's what our friends said.
The place just didn't let in enough sunlight. It screamed for an ultra-bright color to liven things up. She'd insisted the poor exposure could be offset by the use of thin drapery and cleverly arranged track-lighting. The vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors, she reasoned, would be best enhanced by a juicy, yet mellow tone. At the home improvement store, we'd arrived at our respective epiphanies in the same instant: she wanted red, I wanted yellow.
I surveyed her bespattered arm and breast, proud of the wound I'd inflicted. I imagined these could be the opening volleys of inter-planetary war. She was the cruel yellow-blooded alien—I, the noble, red-blooded human. Granted, if the gooey splatter across my chest was actually blood, in all likelihood my guts were bound to be hanging out. Nevertheless, I couldn't let such injustice stand.
Dara had been that way since we first met. She'd insisted on choosing the restaurant where we enjoyed our first meal together, shared our first dessert, and over whose candlelit table we'd had our first of many unforgettable kisses. She's the kind of woman who tells you exactly what's on her mind. And sometimes yours. Sure, she's thoughtful, but unquestionably opinionated. She never met a point she didn't want to make to the stake.
I, on the other hand, the reserved ones. I enjoy great conversation and even the occasional debate, but I'm not as likely to go to such linguistic lengths as she. Her way fits her lifestyle, she's an attorney after all. I'm an accountant. We do have a good thing going. She makes the money, I keep track of it.
