Red Paint

In my office there’s this big comfy looking couch. People call it different colours every time – some say it’s red, some say it’s maroon, some say it’s burgundy – I think it looks like kidney beans. People like to comment on my couch. And my grandfather clock. And the photo of my son on my desk. They think I want to hear this, they think this small talk makes their being here more enjoyable.
I don’t see anything particularly unpleasant with what I do. The inner-psyche has always been rather inviting to me. What makes people cry, yell, kiss, kick, whip expensive China through a glass door? I get to figure it out.
Now, my Tuesdays are always very particular. They’re my favourite days because they’re structured. I wake up at nine o’clock in the morning, and I catch the first fifteen minutes of Coronation Street. I don’t have to be at work until ten because I’m successful. Successful people don’t have to wake up early; it’s our present for being successful. So I watch the English attempt a soap opera. Then I drive to work in my black Mercedes. Another one of the gifts that comes with being successful.
I only have two clients on Tuesdays, because I like to leave early and go and have a drink at the nice cafe across the street from my office. My first client comes in at eleven o’clock. Nice woman, great hair, likes to cry a lot because she thinks her husband is cheating on her. My second client comes at one o’clock. He’s a bit of a prick, but he dresses nicely so I guess I like him. He wears the same white shirt every day, and it looks like something a woman must have bought him. I wonder sometimes if this is from the mistress, but I never ask.
Today is Tuesday. I’ve just sat down in my big leather chair behind my big wooden desk, and I buzz in my eleven o’clock. Today she looks particularly dishevelled. Maybe she finally caught him in the act. I don’t ask.
“He treats me like I’m his slave!” she whimpers.
“And how does that make you feel?” I robotically answer.
“Well... bad! I want him to appreciate all the things I’ve done for him. All the good, nice things I do for him.”
We have to take a thirty second pause – she needs to drink two glasses of my sparkling water, and blow her nose with my silky handkerchiefs. I don’t tell her that those are just for show. I have more at home; after all, successful people can buy things in bulk.
“What are some of the things he does that makes you feel like you’re a slave?”
“Well, yesterday he got home late from work, and I was in bed.”
“Mhm...”
“He was in a bad mood. I thought maybe he’d gone out with the boys. How was I supposed to know I was supposed to tape the game?”
“Well, did he tell you to?”
“He left a note. On the counter, next to a box of tacos.”
“So, you feel as though he wrongfully expected you to make him dinner and tape the Raptors?”
“You think he wanted me to make him dinner, too? That’s even worse!” She then goes into another three and a half minute sob.
God, this is why I leave early on Tuesdays. This woman is insufferably stupid. No wonder her husband is cheating on her.
I spend the hour between appointments watching the tiny TV, as miserable facts flash by on CP24. Why do people even read this?
My one o’clock strolls in five minutes late. I don’t even look up from my desk. Today he’s trying to figure out why his wife is incapable of doing anything he asks.
“I do everything for her.”
By everything I assume he means pay the bills, mow the lawn, and sleep with the neighbour. Or maybe the secretary. He looks like he’s successful enough to have a secretary.
“And what does she do that makes you so miserable?”
“Well, I come home after a long day, and I’m starving. I mean, it’s really the least she can do. She spends all day at home anyway.”
Maybe she should get a lover, too.
“Does she really do nothing for you?” I ask.
He grunts, “She painted the house.”
“Well that’s a big job.”
“She painted it red.”
“You don’t like red?”
“Red is the colour of hate.”
I stare at him quizzically, and then shift my gaze to the couch. Red is the colour of hate? Maybe I need new furniture, if this is the new fad.
My next six days at work are awful. I stay later, because the waiter I like at the cafe only works on Tuesdays.
Finally, my eleven o’clock walks in.
She looks better today.
“My husband was so sweet last night.” She’s all smiles. It’s making my eyes hurt.
“Oh, and why do you think that is?”
“Well, I think he was happy about something that happened with his friends. He spent all night with them, and then he came home happy. Didn’t ask me to make dinner or anything. He even offered that we repaint the house together.”
“And is that something you’re looking forward to?”
“Oh yes. Though I do like the red.”
“And what does red remind you of?”
“Well, love. It’s why I painted it red in the first place. I wonder what colour we’ll paint it this time...” she muses.
I’m distracted by a phone call. It’s short and to the point.
She asks what it was about, and I tell her that my dog walker is sick.
I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell her that my one o’clock just called to tell me that he’s cancelled because of a meeting with his divorce lawyer.