The Impressionist
Masterman's Home for Creative Literary Work

I Loved Her Most In Autumn

 

I calmly took my seat and felt the velvet of the chair against my thighs. As I had gotten there late, the lights were already dark, and the curtain was about to open. 

 

I’ve been waiting for this all month, and I decide to show up late? I thought to myself. I quickly dismissed it. It’s not unusual of me to tempt fate. It’s almost like playing a game with myself, and no matter what, I’m the loser. Why do I keep playing it then?

 

I closed my eyes and took in the anticipation in the room. The orchestra had warmed up and was awaiting the strike of the conductor’s hand to begin. The room was dark and quiet as the audience prepared for the night they were about to experience. No one dared make a sound, almost like a code, so as not to ruin it for any first-timers, like myself. It was polite of them to do us the courtesy.

 

Then, the lights. My favorite part. Ever since I was little I had such a fascination with them. How something, anything, could be made special and brilliant. Whether it was blonde hair in the sunlight, a bonfire in the late hours of summer, or a flashlight exploring somewhere you’re not supposed to be, something about light is so mesmerizing. 

 

Not to mention, they’re how I first saw her.

 

The curtain opened, as the brass and string section let out a triumphant yet graceful sound. A dozen beautiful girls rushed on stage, all with the same forced smile and wide eyes. Toes pointed and arms open, they twirled across the stage to some Russian composer I couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of. It was impressive, I think. Impressive was really all there was to it. Not a hair out of place, they danced in perfect harmony, playing off of each other while not wavering their concentration in the slightest. I didn’t know or frankly care what the story was, which was a tad embarrassing. Sitting next to me was a very old couple, who seemed to look at each other and give a knowing look. This was surely not their first time. 

 

Just as I had started to question my decision, the dancers moved into a V formation, like a very heavily powdered set of birds, presumably to showcase someone who we hadn’t seen yet. With a flourish of the orchestra, the stage was illuminated to reveal what I can only describe as a siren. Someone so angelic and warm, she was surely too good to be true. Her hair was long, and black as twilight, with two twists in the front to keep it out of her face. The spotlight from the balcony made her hair look like it was directly under the brightest full moon I had ever seen. Her skin looked smooth, the kind where I could tell it wasn’t just the lighting. Her eyes gleamed like a reflection in a pool of water. They were at first amber, but I quickly discovered the shade of blue they had been hiding. She was draped in a white dress that flowed as if she was underwater. The phrase “my heart skipped a beat” is far too trivial and only a fraction of the truth. My heart stopped.

 

She moved across the stage like a candle in the wind, or like a brush on canvas. The entire theatre held their breath to see where she would go next. To this day I couldn’t tell you what the other girls looked like (if there even were any other girls on that stage). She held the audience in her palm, and she knew it. With a look, she could crush us, but she chose not to. Instead, she invited us on a journey. Her journey. I began to understand the story behind the dance, and it invigorated me. As she flew across the stage, she expertly portrayed a sense of innocence and youth that the main character should embody. I mentally hit myself for not reading the plot of the ballet, as I wanted to live and breathe every step, every inch of context the world would allow me. If I could live in this one performance, I would have. We marveled at how effortless she looked, and how she could enrapture so many people at once. She was a fire no one could contain- and no one wanted to.

 

I sat in the theatre until I was asked to leave. I hadn’t realized that the lights had come up and there was no one on stage. I hadn’t flinched when that old couple had to squeeze past me to leave their seats. I put on my coat and walked out the door. On the drive home, I listened to the original recording of the ballet and decided I would see it tomorrow. Only this time, I would go backstage. I made a note to myself to wake up extra early and get a backstage pass. On second thought, I realized that they don’t do that at ballets, and decided to go to the stage door after the show. Surely she would be there.

 

After all of my dawdling and self-doubt, I was one of the last to get there. People shouted at me as I tried to inch closer to the gate. A few of the older patrons gave me dirty looks-which was almost worse than the yelling, to be honest. I felt like a little girl, trying to see a concert on her dad’s shoulders. The air was cool but comfortable. My hands were closely held in gloves, and my messy hair was covered neatly in a beanie. I’d tried my best to look presentable, my auburn hair freshly combed out and my face covered in as much makeup as I felt comfortable doing. Still, I felt foolish. What was I doing here? I had seen a gorgeous girl at a ballet, and now I think what, that she’s going to feel the same towards me. I don’t think many ballerinas have fallen in love with the short and stubby girl who stalked them after watching them dance. 

 

Just as I decided to go home, she walked out of the door. I froze in my tracks. It was like one of those moments in movies, the ones where everything seems so cliche. Her smile gleamed as she heard what I can only assume was applause upon her arrival. But I couldn’t hear anything at all. Her beauty was the kind that hits you in waves. The obvious realization that you’re looking at something magnificent: her eyes, her hair, the shine of her lip gloss, her collarbone, all the way down and back up again until you have to pull yourself away. I’m not quite sure how much time had passed, but when I finally recovered from my daze, I saw her begin to leave. The panic in me surged up through my throat, where I tried to cry “Wait!” or “Stop!” or even a simple “Hi!”, but instead turned into a mangled sort of yelp. I started to run towards her, but tripped on someone’s fallen scarf, and fell to the ground. I felt someone’s hands on me as my face buried itself atop the concrete, and a soft voice whispered to me, “Are you alright?” I looked up to discover it was her, and it felt as if a meaty hand had enclosed my throat. After a few seconds of silence, my brain completely empty yet bursting at the seams, she helped me up.

 

“I’m so sorry, that was my scarf that you stepped on! It never wants to stay around my neck.” Oh, what I would give to be that scarf. I blinked my eyes, not having been shut in quite some time.

 

“No, it’s totally fine! I’m kind of a klutz, anyway. You–well, you could never do anything wrong.”

 

Fuck.

 

She gave me a quizzical look, and my stomach became a pit. Then, she did something remarkable. She laughed. Her eyes gazed down to my legs, which I haven’t even noticed were cut open.

 

“Wow, your knees,” she exclaimed, almost as if she’s never seen a wound before. “Come on, love, let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

I nearly repeated my smooth entrance. My knees felt like jelly, completely unrelated to the physical state of them.

 

“Oh, no, I’m fine really-“

 

“We’re going to my apartment so I can get you a nice cup of tea and some antiseptic,” she stated very promptly, cutting me off. How could I argue with that? I forced my body out of its rigor mortis to nod my head, and off we went.

 

About a month had passed since I tripped on Rosalind’s scarf. Since then, life had been nothing short of a fairytale. Every night, I would trudge up to her apartment and would be greeted with wide open arms. Even then when she embraced me, I felt like a little girl. We would sit on the couch, her cat Anna would jump onto my lap, and we would watch an old sitcom. I believe at the time we were still watching Friends. She really loved Friends.

 

I had recently begun to notice her hair. As we went farther into November, her hair began to get lighter. When I had met her, it was a rich, robust black, but much like leaves on the trees, it began to lose its color. 

 

“When did you get your hair dyed last?” I asked, simply out of curiosity. She barely acknowledged me, giggling at something Chandler said.

 

“My hair?” She murmured, eyes still glued to the television screen.

 

“Yeah. It’s looking more brownish. Are you going to get it touched up?”

 

She stopped laughing. All of the light from her eyes suddenly extinguished. She didn’t answer me.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, you still look amazing!” I chimed in, thinking I had offended her. She snapped out of her trance and put on a smile that I didn’t believe.

 

“Sorry. I might get it done in the next couple of weeks!”

 

I let out a cautious sigh of relief. In the past several weeks, we’d had no disagreements whatsoever. I didn’t want to leave the honeymoon phase quite yet.

 

“Who knows,” she murmured, “maybe I’ll get it changed.” 

 

I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and she snuggled up to me. Even when she was being strange, she was still perfect.

 

Every day her hair got lighter. I decided not to comment on it- I didn’t want a repeat of a few weeks ago. At Thanksgiving with her parents, it was a soft auburn, not quite brown, not quite ginger. 

 

When we went ice skating, it was like hot chocolate, warming my body. Her ballet skills had transferred quite well to figure skating, and total strangers would gawk at her just for doing a lap around the rink. Her leg perfectly, impossibly extended towards the sky, a smile across her face, she levitated above the ice. Her eyes twinkled as she looked back at me, she laughed, then started on another lap of turns and extensions. I felt awkward and bumbling in my own body, and a familiar burst of imposter syndrome flooded my system. What right did I possibly have to be with a person like her?

 

Sometimes we would go on shopping trips together. Whereas I would always get extremely overwhelmed by my enormous shopping list, Rosalind was calm and composed. She would rub my shoulders when we would approach a new store, touch the small of my back when we were checking out, and kiss me when I could finally cross a family member off of my list. It was a good reward system for me and certainly made me feel less stressed. Sometimes she would sneak off, and it would feel like I couldn’t breathe. But she would always come back. It was so silly, how at the thought of her leaving, I became like a child who had lost their mother in a mall. 

 

My favorite holiday thing to do, though, was to go to this one little neighborhood in our city. The more well-off families would spare no expense in decorating their houses. Whether it was inflatable Santas, reindeer, penguins, or even simple strings of lights, everywhere you looked was an explosion of Christmas spirit. These were the kinds of families that had a basement and an upstairs, the kind of families who bake their cookies to put out for Santa. Where every Christmas season was bigger than a wedding. Parents would spend weeks shopping to make everything perfect for their children, and made certain to buy everything on their Christmas list. They would always wait for their kids to go to bed, and then set up an extraordinary display in the living room. Presents were expertly organized and fit like a glove under the tree, as if that was where they were always meant to be. Mom and Dad would take a few bites out of the cookies, drink the milk, and even take a bite out of a carrot (as it was presumed the reindeers should eat, too). And of course, on Christmas morning, the children would wake up at the crack of dawn- not because of an alarm, but because of the pure excitement. They would run downstairs, and the joy on their faces would make everything worth it. Mom and Dad would share glances, collect wrapping paper, and take pictures as Christmas dreams came true, right in front of their eyes. 

 

For years, I had experienced this type of Christmas only through looking through windows, hearing stories from school, or walking down that very street. Not that my life was anything tragic. My Christmases were always joyful and warm. With no upstairs or downstairs, no giant tree, or truckload of presents, my parents took pride in their milk and cookies. And yes, they would still stay up and put out the half burned-out Christmas lights in the living room. My dad would find his old camera and tape almost every moment of me opening my presents, however many or few there were. We would stay warm on Christmas Eve, all cuddled up on the couch, dozing off to Christmas music. My mom would make sure that the blanket always covered my feet, even if it meant that it wouldn’t cover hers. It was nice. It was really, really nice.

 

As Rosalind and I walked down the street, we marveled at the display. Although it was the thousandth time I had seen it, I could feel my eyes tear up, the cold wind stinging them as I walked forward. Rosalind’s mouth dropped, as she took everything in. The lights from the houses reflected in her eyes to reveal tears of her own. They flowed down her porcelain skin, sparkling like the first snow of winter. Her lips were parted, mouthing silent words I longed to hear. I yearned to go to her, to touch her, but I knew that she needed to experience this on her own, if only for a moment. Rows of artfully put together houses stood before us. She grabbed my hand and gave me a look that said more than she ever needed to. I wished I could stay there forever.

 

A week before Christmas is when it happened. It started off as a regular Friday night. It was my turn to bring dinner, so I picked up some Chinese, making sure to bring extra fortune cookies. Usually, my commute to Rosalind’s place was buzzing with car alarms, sirens, and miscellaneous chatter, but whether it was the snow or the fact that everyone was away, all I could hear was the sound of my boots on the pavement.

 

I clunked up the stairs to Rosalind’s apartment. Even though it was surely more than the hundredth time I had been to her building, climbing her stairs was just as laborious as the first- even with two gashed knees. I always made sure not to tell her I was there until I was on the last flight, for fear of embarrassment if she knew how long it took me to arrive at her door.

 

After finally climbing the stair-mountain, I texted her and knocked on her door. After about 30 seconds of no reply, I texted her a single question mark. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Still no reply.

 

“Rose?” I shouted, knocking on the door a bit louder. Surely she was just wearing headphones. I decided to call this time, instead of text. While this behavior certainly wasn’t unheard of, it definitely wasn’t normal. 

 

Still no reply.

 

“Okay,” I shouted, “I’m coming in!” 

 

I fished out my key to her place, balancing Chinese food in the crook of my elbow, and finally went inside. But to my shock, Rosalind was sitting on the couch, holding a mug of cocoa.

 

“Rose! You could’ve opened the door,” I said, as I shimmied off my boots and closed the door. I wasn’t really mad, more annoyed and confused. I turned around, and on better inspection, I discovered that her hair was stark white.

 

“Wow,” I muttered. She looked as beautiful as ever, though she wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I didn’t know you had a hair appointment today.”

 

Her hand slowly touched her hair and pulled a strand to her face.

 

“Oh,” she muttered. Not to me, but to herself. Her eyes looked glazed over. She was wearing last night’s oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Had she been outside today?

 

“Hey,” I said, as I made my way to kneel in front of her, “Are you okay?”

 

She closed her eyes and took a giant breath. My mind began to race. She isn’t normally like this. Is she going to break up with me? She’s cheating on me. Her cat died. Something isn’t right, something isn’t right, something isn’t right.

 

“I didn’t get a hair appointment today,” she finally blurted out. She stared at me with worry in her eyes, awaiting a response. Apparently, that was all she had to tell me.

 

“So… you dyed it yourself?” I asked, not knowing what she wanted from me. My knees began to ache, my hands becoming sweaty.

 

“No,” she said, matter-of-factly. 

 

“I don’t really understand what you’re getting at,” I replied. “You were strawberry blonde yesterday.”

 

“Yes,” she stated. “But today’s different. It’s December 21st.”

 

At that point, she totally lost me.

 

“Okay? That’s not your birthday, that’s in July.”

 

She looked at the floor. “It’s the first day of winter. I changed.”

 

“Yeah,” I said, almost laughing, but too unsettled to. “Your hair.”

 

“No!” She let out an angry sigh as if I wasn’t understanding something really obvious. She got up and went to her bookshelf. After scanning the rows, she pulled out a black, slender book, and sat back down. It was a photo album ranging from elementary school to what looked like college. It was organized by the seasons.

 

“Look.” She flipped through the pages fairly quickly, but slow enough to get her point across. “Do you see the pattern?”

 

I did, in fact, see the pattern. As we grazed through the years, I saw that every season, Rosalind had a different hair color. In spring it was a light brown, with highlights of every shade. In summer, it was a golden blonde that would make the sun green with envy. In fall, as I had experienced, it was a warm and vivacious red. And in winter as I’d just discovered, it turned to a crisp, snow-white.

 

“I’ve never dyed my hair, Ava. Not once. Every year since I was young, it’s just done this. No one else in my family has this, no one knows why, no one knows how. It just happens.”

 

I didn’t know what to say. A different person might have called her crazy, that she was pranking me, that she was a compulsive liar. But as I looked into her eyes, I could tell that she was telling the truth.

 

“I believe you,” I said. I paused. “Why haven’t you told me this?”

 

She looked at me like she was about to cry. “Because you’ll leave.”

 

That statement, those three words, were one thousand times more shocking and confusing than the hair.

 

“Do you really think that?” She nodded.

 

I moved up to the couch with her and gently guided her head into my lap. As I stroked her hair, she wept.

 

“You are the best thing to ever happen to me,” I soothed, “there’s no way that your hair color is going to push me away. Do you realize what a mess I’d be without you?”

 

She nuzzled closer into me. Our breathing synchronized as we began to fall asleep, and the smell of cold Chinese food slowly dissipated. At the time, I truly had no clue what the big deal was. It was miraculous and strange, yes, but surely not anything to leave a person over. Especially this person. I made a silent promise to both myself and her that night, that no matter what we would stick it out.

 

My routine became wildly different that winter. I would set an alarm an hour before I would normally wake up, and quietly get out of bed, trying my best not to wake Rose. Before attending to any of my needs, I made her some green tea with extra sugar. I would pour Cinnamon Toast Crunch into a bowl, and try my best to make a smiley face with the cereal. Some days it worked better than others. I would softly put it next to her bedside counter, as I slid her slippers next to the bed. She would pick out her outfit for the day the night before, and it would be carefully laid out on her dresser. Everything would be as easy as it possibly could.

 

I finally understood what the big deal was. It wasn’t just her hair color that would change, but her personality. In spring she was youthful, adventurous, and loved to try new things. She would go on morning hikes, dine at new restaurants every week, and compliment strangers wherever she would go. In summer she was wild, drunk off of sunshine. She would take me dancing in the rain, swim underneath the moonlight, drive into the night, not caring where we’d end up.

 

Autumn was my favorite. She was warm, her arms always open for an embrace. She would bake with me, and we could jump around the living room with flour on our noses. We would rewatch shows over and over, feeling comfort in our favorite characters. Some nights, we would stay up far too late to watch a movie. When I picked, it was generally a comedy. Whenever she picked, it was something romantic and dramatic. “Pride and Prejudice” was our favorite. We would often hold each other as we wept, watching the same movie for the hundredth time. She would let me wear her sweaters, and I would let her wear mine, relishing in each other’s scent. She was a warm fireplace, she was pumpkin pie, she was rainbow-colored leaves clinging onto the branch, she was light. I loved her most in Autumn. She loved me whenever I was there.

 

Winter always came. She would become darker, heavier. The twinkle in her eyes dimmed to mere luster, the softness in her voice turned to lethargy. Her smiles were quieter, dampened by the snow- if there were smiles at all. She wasn’t cold on purpose. It took me a while to learn that. Everything was gray to her, where there was once a prism of opportunity. 

 

Most days it was a triumph if she would get out of bed. Nutcracker season was finally over at the ballet, and she had no motivation to leave her apartment. After weeks of me not understanding and doing what I thought would help her, I finally began to realize what she needed. Some days were good, others weren’t. Initially, I was taken aback by how truly helpless she was. I wondered if this is how she always viewed me– helpless.  

 

Everything would be as easy as it could for her. I stayed with her most days until it was simply more practical to move in. It was hard to love her. She knew that. She was never hard to love before. She knew that, too.

 

During these months, I felt obligation and duty, but no fulfillment. The woman I had fallen in love with was nowhere to be seen in that apartment. Day in and day out I would cook, clean, and provide for her. At first, I felt like a martyr, like one of the dutiful partners you read about in old stories. But as days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, the sun never rose. None of my work was making her better. Sure, she would get out of bed, but she would only migrate from there to the couch. I had to keep telling myself that spring would come, but it would never feel like that was true.

 

I missed her. I missed her as I gently woke her up in the mornings. I missed her as I helped her put on a new shirt. I missed her as she rolled up her sleeves to cover her scars, thinking that I couldn’t see them. I missed her as I dined with her, slept with her, spooned with her. Oh, how I missed her.

 

Then, spring came.

 

It came quietly at first, like the first sprout to burst through the snow. Her hair began to darken, though at first, I thought it was just a trick of the light. But eventually, more and more plants were appearing outside of our window. The sun was rising earlier and setting later. I switched from my heavy winter coat to a more stylish denim. One day, I noticed that she was awake before me, making breakfast. I almost cried. 

 

She was still tired. Fair enough, it was only March. But I began to get excited. When I passed her in the kitchen, I would hug her from behind and whisper, “It’s spring.” A smile would blossom across her face, and she would return to doing the dishes. She hadn’t done the dishes in months. I would return from the farmers market with new plants basically every day, wanting to fill the apartment with new life. Succulents, orchids, and other assorted shrubbery began to take up almost as much time and maintenance as Rose and I, but I didn’t care. It was finally spring. 

 

Early in the morning, I felt a poke and lazily started to rise.

 

“Babe.”

 

“Mmph?” I groggily replied.

 

“I just found this amazing new breakfast place. Get dressed!”

 

My eyes burst open. I looked to my right, and sure enough, Rose was standing next to me, completely dressed in exercise gear, hair braided, makeup lightly done. I jumped to my feet, and immediately tackle hugged her down to the bed. 

 

“What’s gotten into you?!” she laughed, sprawled out on the comforter. I smiled- a truer smile than I’ve felt in months.

 

“It’s spring,” I simply stated. She smirked at me, but there was nothing teasing in her eyes.

 

“You’re gonna wanna wear breathable clothes. After breakfast we’re going on a hike!” She waltzed out the door. My excitement and euphoric relief almost overpowered my disdain for hiking. For her, I’d hike to the ends of the Earth.

 

That entire spring, I was giddier than a kid in a candy store. She would convince me to go on runs with her by buying us Starbucks afterward. We would both tend to our plants as we listened to music. Many a dance party would occur, and our apartment became a stage. Seeing her doing something other than ballet was jarring at first, but adorable to see she wasn’t very good at it. That didn’t stop her from looking beautiful as ever. 

 

At least once a week we would take a hike to one of our favorite spots. I would never want to get up, but I would always be happy with the end result. Once we would reach the top of the hill, we would lie down and watch the sun rise. The pinky-orange hues made her chestnut hair magical, as if it held all warmth and sunshine in it. Her eyes were a kaleidoscope, capturing the golden beams around us. I interlaced my hand with hers, touched my other hand to her face, and finally felt whole again. She rested her head in my lap, and I stroked her hair, finally not out of necessity or darkness, but of total contentment. 

 

Every year, winter would come. It never got easier, but more familiar, as we reinstated our routines and patterns. Eventually, we developed a language of our own, so I could gauge exactly what she needed. Although it was hard, it was really important to me that she never felt like a burden. Because honestly, she wasn’t. From the very moment I saw her, I was under her spell. I knew that it was my purpose in life to love her as honestly and wholly as a soul could. It didn’t matter if that was staying up late counting the stars, passionate kisses in the ocean, or just holding her when she needed to be held. When everything becomes hard for the person you love, it is not your job to fix them. This took a while to set in for me, to realize that no matter what I do, this won’t just magically go away for her. Rosalind was not a problem handed to me to figure out, she wasn’t a project. My job and my honor was just to support her however I could, and be there when I couldn’t. It wasn’t always easy to look past the gray, and most days it felt nearly impossible. There were mornings where everything became too much, and if I had to move a single finger, I would perish right then and there. But then I remembered that this was how she feels, all the time. If I couldn’t cope feeling that way for a few hours, then I couldn’t imagine how she could do it all day, every day, for months. So, I would fight through it. Rose could sense when I was feeling this way, and would always feel so guilty of what she was putting me through. I would explain to her that if I didn’t want to be with her, then I wouldn’t. She was worth it. I would always be here, spring would always come, and she could always rest her head in my lap.

 

I loved her most in Autumn. I love her still in Winter.