It was supposed to be white. Plain white. Clean white. She always agreed it would be white.
It was what she was wearing the first time she caught me looking at her. I would steal glances otherwise. But she never caught me till that day in our apartment’s shared kitchen. She was cooking; I was doing the dishes. We barely spoke though we had been rooming for over 2 months. We avoided all forms of contact. Her house and I just lived in it for cheap rent.
Over time, we got close. Not like friends, but occupy space and not be disgusted. For me, it was enough. For her, I never found out.
When it came down to all the critical moments we spent together, I still remembered how she would laugh off the serious and angry bits of her life. Hysterically. Dismissively. A white flag would be plastered across her closed door forcing me, her flat mate, to every other corner of the house. This happened like clock work three or four times a month. I avoided her during this phase better than I could fathom.
We agreed that when we parted ways, it would be smooth and not fussy. But without a word, she merely painted her entire front door white. All my stuff packed in boxes was left outside. I got the not-subtle hint.
But I couldn’t believe it had come to that. No reason. No discussion.
‘Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders’, the note said.
‘Typical,’ I whispered to myself in our lonely stairway.
She had wiped her memory clean and started afresh with a white and blank space. Time for me to return the favour.