The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
“Closure” By Maggie Schneider
Closure is a strange thing. Once you cut ties with someone, there’s this lump in your throat that won’t go away, like a bubble full of unspoken emotion. Then, when you’re in the situation, all you can do is sit there and think about all the words you want to say, vacantly nodding as if there’s never been a bubble sitting in the back of your throat waiting to burst. And, after this awkward scenario, you leave wondering what would’ve happened if you were honest, tripping over your words and stumbling through the sentences you came up with at midnight listening to your favorite sad song.
In my experience with closure, my lump didn’t just dissolve, my bubble burst.
I was leaving school after a long day of painting. My black Ramones t-shirt was covered in bright blue and yellow splotches as if I had gotten into a paintball fight. My hair was in a messy bun and my face was bare – needless to say, all I wanted was my vanilla latte from Octane and a quiet night.
I locked my car’s doors and heard its beep echo through the parking deck. Walking up the hill anticipating my nightly reward, my eyes were drawn towards various couples walking and chatting with their cups of coffee. I sighed as my past crept back into my brain. This was a daily occurrence. I crossed my arms and walked more quickly to the door of the shop, avoiding eye contact with the couple holding the door for me.
“Welcome to Octane,” the barista at the counter said, smiling. “What can I get started for you today?”
“Can I get a vanilla latte? Large and for here,” I replied. I gave him a $5 bill and he handed me the usual 55 cents. Right on cue, after reaching for my wallet, my fist opened and I heard the clanking sounds of the quarter and dimes as they hit the floor. I groaned from this annoying habit and bent down to pick up my change.
“Here, let me help you,” a voice said behind me. It was low and a bit raspy, familiar.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, standing back up. I turned around to accept the change. It was Noah.
“Kat? Oh sorry, I didn’t know it was you,” Noah said, standing up again. He began fidgeting with his hands. His palms would always sweat when he got nervous.
I didn’t really know what to say, and the lump in my throat reappeared. “Hi, um, yeah.” Not the best three words I’ve put together, I thought to myself. My first impulse was to run for the door or ask the barista to give me a to-go cup. But I just stood there, looking at the guy who had been my boyfriend of three years. He was wearing his usual uniform: a blue button-up shirt and black pants. It matched his personality. His hair was still dark and curly, but a bit longer than the last time I saw him. My heart starting beating at a faster pace.
“How are you doing? What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I just got out of class and needed a coffee,” I replied. “What about you?”
“I just left work. I’m working at the bank across the street now.”
“Wow,” I said. God, use your words, Kat. “That’s great. Are you still at GSU?”
“Yep,” he answered. I noticed that his eyes were bloodshot as he readjusted his glasses.
The barista cut into our awkward interaction by letting us both know that our orders were ready. He slid our mugs across the white countertop with a smile and a nod, and I briefly wondered if he thought this was our first date from our nervousness. I stared at my latte, hoping to find an escape route through its thick layer of foam. Noah looked down at his usual order, a black coffee as if he was thinking the same thing. We both picked up our cups at the same time and he looked at me again.
“Do you want to sit and catch up?” Noah asked. The lump in my throat grew larger, as my chance for escape diminished. At the same time, my guilt washed over me.
“Sure,” I stuttered, without my heart’s full consent. I should’ve just made coffee at home.
We took our coffee cups to the nearest booth and he scooted onto the grey bench. I slowly slid into the seat opposite him and took a sip of my latte. I licked the foam off of my upper lip.
“So,” he began. “You’re still painting?”
“Oh yeah, that’s practically all I’m doing right now. I’m working on a new series of oils.”
“That’s awesome, I’d love to see it.”
I had no response to this.
“How’s your mom?” I asked, changing the subject. This may not have been the best subject either, considering Noah’s mom was definitely not a patron of the arts. She’d glare at the paint stains on my clothes with disapproval, always asking Noah why I didn’t go to a “real school.”
He looked down at his coffee cup. “She’s fine,” he replied. “Mom is, uh, playing matchmaker again with the daughter of one of her friends at the firm. Vivian’s a law student at GSU, so it’s a good fit.”
I nodded and let out a tiny laugh. “Someone hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah, she means well though,” he said, now fidgeting with the buttons on his sleeves. “What about you? How are your parents?”
“They’re doing well,” I answered. “Still super supportive.”
What I didn’t tell Noah was that this fall had been tough for my family. My dad was let go from his office job, so my mom was doing everything she could to support both him and me by teaching vocal lessons. She was a wonderful singer and teacher, but the bills stacked up. I had to take out student loans for the year. No matter what, though, they were always there for me when Noah wasn’t.
“So you’re still studying to be an artist?” This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked this question. My vanilla latte suddenly tasted bitter.
“Yes. I’m surprised you’d even ask.” My tone was sharp and tense. He took a sip of coffee and sighed.
“I’m sorry – I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a lot of money for a degree where you’re not guaranteed a job.”
Here we go again. I struggled to keep the irritation out of my expression, but I felt like I was on fire. I was taken back to when I received my acceptance letter to SCAD in the mail. It was the morning of my 17th birthday, and I immediately called Noah with tears of joy welling up in my eyes. All Noah said was that as long as I was happy, he was happy. I needed more than that both then and now.
“Why does there always have to be a guarantee with you, Noah?” I cut him off and stared straight down at the metal table.
“Look, Kat. You know I’m all about logic. It doesn’t mean I didn’t like your pictures.” He looked me directly in the eye. “I always tried to be supportive.”
“Oh really? You didn’t even show up to the opening night of my show.” The words tumbled out of my mouth like a Jenga tower collapsing, piece by piece. It suddenly hit me: I had not let go of that night. My disappointment, my anger, and my guilt all combined and made my chest grow tight.
“Do you seriously want to talk about this now?” His voice grew louder and I noticed couples sitting at other booths glaring at us.
“Why not? You said you wanted to catch up,” I said, raising my voice to match his.
~
It was the opening of my first show. SCAD was showcasing my work in one of their small exhibit rooms on campus, and it seemed like the whole artistic community of Atlanta was there. Noah wasn’t. My series was completely inspired by Noah and our relationship together. For months, I had been working on this giant portrait of Noah, and I was unveiling it at my show. I kept the piece at school and worked on it every chance I could in-between classes. It had to be perfect. Red and pink pigments covered the entire canvas, as well as my pale fingers for months.
I wore a long red dress that sparkled in the light and my only pair of black heels. It was the first time since my high school prom that I wore a dress. My hair was pinned up and I wore a red lipstick – I felt confident about my work for the first time.
The opening was a success, and I was introduced to many art gallery owners, curators, creators, and collectors. I kept checking the time on my phone every 20 minutes, wondering where Noah was. I even tried calling him twice, but it went to voicemail. My heart sank further and further as each hour passed.
The show was over at 11 pm, and by 11:30 pm the room was empty. I took my heels off and sat on a bench, staring at the portrait. Noah’s image looked back at me coldly, with disapproval. I couldn’t stand to look at him for another second.
I snapped.
I left my heels and purse in the exhibit room and ran down the hall to the painting studio. The studio was dark at this point since I was the only one left in the building. I grabbed paints and brushes from my workspace and rushed back to the exhibit room, my hair beginning to fall down on my face and shoulders.
I started squeezing the paints out of their tubes with reckless abandon. I made the first stroke and all at once I felt giddy. The paint blobs dripped down Noah’s face, but I could still see his eyes. I took my brush and smeared black paint all over the canvas until his expression disappeared. One thick stroke of black kept his mouth shut, while another stroke blinded him. I finally felt free, but I didn’t stop there. I took my blue and green paints – the cold colors – and squeezed them onto the bristles of my brush. I began erasing Noah’s entire face, rubbing the brush onto my new creation in a quick, back-and-forth motion, until the entire canvas was one, muddy color.
I had erased his image and his judgments. Memories flooded my thoughts and I put my face in my hands. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I looked down at my paint-smeared palms. I wasn’t completely the victim here. I stayed, I remained passive. I didn’t try to change it or end it.
For the first time in a long time, I felt that I wanted to do something.
The first wave of guilt hit me like a tsunami when I felt my phone vibrate.
Noah: Kat, I am SO sorry. I got stuck in another meeting.
Bullshit, I thought, only a moment later. Anger quickly displaced the guilt. I knew that we were over. I stopped returning his calls and texts after that night and avoided our favorite weekend spots. Ghosting him was surprisingly easy, and after a couple weeks, his nightly interrogation texts finally ended. He never came by. Maybe he finally felt something too.
~
Noah took a moment, looking around at the couples around us, and lowering his voice again.
“Remember when I apologized? Remember when I tried to make things better again with you? You shut me out, Kat! You just never tried.”
I daintily moved my coffee cup to the right of the table and leaned in close to Noah’s face.
“Noah,” I began. “I tried. I tried pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t. I tried to overlook your disinterest in my art, and I tried to stay with you because I thought we finally loved each other. I finally figured out that it wasn’t love.” My voice was shaking.
Noah shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Well thank you so much for wasting three years of my time.”
“And thank you for reminding me that I made the right choice.” His words couldn’t cut me anymore. I grabbed my wallet and walked to the door, without looking back. The wind hit me in the face and sent a chill to my spine on the way out of the door. It was freeing. That was my closure.
