Rewind

He was by far the most interesting person at the party. In fact, when she thought of it, he was the most fascinating person she had met in a long time. About everyone she ever came across was boisterous, attention-seeking or simply drab.

Between a lot of laughing and alcohol they had a brilliant conversation. Amongst other things, they established that the party was overflowing with boring people, the year’s Oscar nominations were astonishingly off beam, and that any job would eventually be horrible and meaningless.

In a room curdled with a mix of heavy smoke, flippant strangers and soft music he had told her he wanted to leave everything and follow his heart. He wanted to paint. And in that moment he swept her off her feet. Just like that.

Three months later they married each other.

It was a lovely painting, giant, intangible and yet subtly figurative, the kind she liked. She was laughing, her head was thrown back and her hands were behind her on the wooden table she sat on. He was standing close to her, making a point with his drink.

That evening had been tinted in a drunken orange glow that the smoke confused and conversations ignored. It was many years ago, but standing before the painting she recognised the first time they came across, all of it, in the grain and the scattered brushstrokes.

They separated only a few years into their wedding, the hurriedness with which they got together probably made it inevitable, she thought. He was after all, simply some guy who made her laugh at a party she crashed.

To family and friends they were the perfect couple, others sought to be more like them. He was an aspiring artist, she was incredibly pretty and they threw the liveliest parties. No one ever had a bad word to say about them, and for most the two were the final confidants. Somehow the way they lived their lives, their opinions, the clothes they wore, the furniture they used, the films and books they approved of, the restaurants they suggested were the right ones, they were exclusive to them, they were exactly what everyone else aspired to develop a taste for.

And yet every day their wedding crumbled a little more.

She had recognised and rejected an ordinary course for her life, one whose sole motivation was to get married and raise children. Like him she wanted to leave everything, but she didn’t know what she would be leaving it for. It was what made him attractive; he knew what would make him happy.

She lived her dreams through his paintings; her life was decorated in their colours. Everything seemed possible; in his presence she felt comfortable to seek out and realise her own vision.

He liked to paint and he wanted to be an artist. But he loved more than anything the definition this gave to his existence, that of an artist in the making. It distinguished him from everybody else, it made for brilliant conversation, and it had given him a beautiful wife. So much so, that he forgot that being an artist required a lot of effort.

As time passed, little became of his extravagant dreams leaving him hugely frustrated. Was he just running away from ordinary and tedious jobs? Was his passion for painting a mere façade? A juvenile means of dodging life’s responsibilities?

She tired of running the house soon after. She realised that their lives were as commonplace as any of the boring people at that party. Many of those people never realised their ordinariness. Other did, but then they came to terms with it and moved on, instead of trying to escape the obvious reality. Bit by bit she found herself caught in the exact life she had run away from when she married him.

Over a period of time this led to bitter fights, nasty allegations and eventually robbed them of their love for each other.

“No, I don’t love you! You are just someone who made me laugh once, at a party I almost didn’t go to.”

“You are the kind of woman that would suck my dick if I sold a painting tomorrow.”

It was his first exhibition, and if the papers were to be believed, it was a roaring success. He had left her a message inviting her, telling her how much he would love for her to visit the gallery.

The painting of them, Rewind, was the centrepiece of his exhibit. Was it as obvious a suggestion as it seemed? She felt stupid for feeling that way. But at the same time she began to justify his behaviour before they separated. Standing before the painting looking at him, she found herself admitting his guts in choosing art over anything else he could have done. And now, eventually, he was successful.

Nobody else would believe her, but back then she knew that someday he would succeed. Not because he was truly passionate about art, but because he genuinely loved what being an artist could do to his life, the honour, the fame, and the money. Eventually he’d paint his way to all of that.

But almost immediately she reminded herself that when they separated, she didn’t believe this would happen anytime soon.

She walked around the gallery; drink in her hand, music in her head thinking the kind of things that are impossible to share with anyone. Not because they are criminal, but because you don’t really mean them, at least not entirely, they are just playful amusing thoughts. He’d invite her to dinner after the exhibition, she’d agree. She kept telling herself that it would only be a conversation, but a part of her was making her smile with anticipation. They had been young, too impatient to handle a marriage. They have now known each other much longer. He was still by a huge margin the most intriguing person she knew.

Walking around she came back to stand before Rewind.

***

“Thank you so much for coming. Hope you liked it?”

“They are all flawless, loved all of them, especially this.”

“Oh yes! It’s me and April, my fiancé. I must introduce you to her; she has always wanted to meet you. We are getting married next month. This is for her, the first time we met; it was at Karen’s party. You remember Karen?”

“No. No I don’t. But congratulations, what great news. Goodluck.”

“Thanks, now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Yes please, go ahead.”