“I suppose it’s how she captured images in a way that felt raw and unfiltered. It was about truth, not perfection.”
“That’s what gives an image soul,” I agree, working at a particularly tight spot where she must carry her stress. “I see that in your photos.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I’d argue you don’t give yourself enough.”
“You might be right. I’ll have to think about that.”
“I get the impression you do a lot of thinking.”
“Too much,” she admits. “I can overthink just about anything or nothing at all.”
“You mean like a thought gets stuck in your head?”
“Sometimes it’s one thought, sometimes it’s many.”
“Can you explain it to me? I mean, what it’s like for you.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah, I do.” I’m interested in everything about her, but I get the sense she’s not used to a man wanting a deep dive into who she is.
“Umm. The best way I can describe it is to imagine having multiple TVs blaring inside your head—each on a different channel, and you can’t turn them down or shut them off.”
Jesus.“That must be overwhelming. How do you escape it then?”
“Headphones and music help to block some of the noise and distract my brain. But that’s not always feasible, like in social situations.”
“I can see that. What do you do then?”
“It’s going to sound weird.” She pauses. “I recall random facts that I’ve read. I know a ton of trivia. I find it fascinating, but it also comes in handy to quiet the chaos. It’s as if it gives my mind something simple to focus on.”
“That’s an interesting strategy. How’d you come up with that?”
“By accident. It was at my junior debutante ball—a stupid, antiquated event.” She tenses up again, and I concentrate on the knot beneath my hands. “I was stuffed into a hideous gown that felt more like a cage. I could barely breathe. The taffeta was awful on my skin—I’m texture-sensitive. I just wanted to tear it off. I begged my mother not to make me go. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She lectured me on the importance of social obligations because appearances matter most to her.”
Fuck, I hate everything about this story—the lack of concern for their daughter, the elitism—but I don’t interrupt, letting her talk while I keep working those bunched muscles.
“I remember stepping out onto the floor, shaking. My mind was racing with all the ways I could humiliate myself—trip on my dress and face plant, throw up on someone’s shoes—the thoughts went on and on, spiraling. And then it came to me, something interesting I’d read: Flamingos are pink because of the carotenoids in the shrimp and algae they eat. I started repeating it over and over in my head, like a mantra—flamingosare pink because they eat shrimp. It switched the panic to a low setting, which helped me make it through. I know that must sound ridiculous, but it often works.”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous; it sounds genius,” I say, impressed. “You’re good at finding ways to cope. Nothing wrong with that, Blue.”
“I guess not,” she concedes. “Better than having a meltdown.”
“Meltdowns have their place, too.”
“I suppose, but I’d rather not.”
That’s not a surprise considering how tightly she keeps herself contained, holding in all that pressure. It’s no wonder she’s here in search of some peace.
“Your turn to tell me something,” she says.
“I’m an open book. Ask away.”
“Hm.” She hums thoughtfully. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Going for the big one.”
