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Red Binaries

Tabitha Holcombe

    I rub my lips together pressing the red lipstick out evenly. My tongue runs across my front teeth as I adjust my rearview mirror to review my smile. Clean, white teeth and scarlet red lips. I look around at the brand new Mercedes that I bought with the life insurance money a few days ago. The scent of a new car, the smoothness of new leather seats yet to crack from sunlight and the dashboard a dark, unfaded shade of gray. These are things I have never experienced until now and I probably wouldn’t have either if it wasn’t for what happened. An associate professor’s salary was just enough, but not for frivolous luxury vehicles. It’s hard to think how much things have changed in the past three months. The thought of someone living in our house still hurts. I didn’t even go through his things; they were sold with the house. Zero, pi over two, pi, three pi over two.
    I know I should just crank the car and leave. I should go somewhere else, or just get a room alone for the night. I shouldn’t be here doing this, waiting on a “client” to call me, but as usual I sit here frozen staring blankly at the airbag logo on the steering wheel in front of me. A sudden knock on the fiberglass window jolts me. What is he doing here? My heart sinks to the floorboard and I put on my best surprised smile as my window glides down, breaking the transparent barrier between us.
    “New car? You must be getting paid pretty good these days, huh?” he says condescendingly. He has a devilish grin that reveals pearly white teeth. On the outside, Sullivan is confident. He appears bold, independent and self-assured to the untrained eye and, for the most part, he is all those things. Except when things get tough, or people don’t act the way he wants them too, or when he can’t understand others. That’s when he is truly himself. My eyes focus on his wicked but delicate smile. His lips are so inviting. He’s so handsome. A pang of guilt stabs at my gut and I try to ignore it. I know where it takes me and I don’t want to be there right now.
    “I guess you could say that. What are you doing here anyway?” I ask boldly and bluntly. I’m taken aback at how easily it was for me to ask but he’s not fazed. Back when we were together in college, he would tease me all the time saying that thoughts pour out of me like wine into a small glass, splashing stains onto a new tablecloth. But I can’t help it. I’ve never been a graceful person, physically or emotionally. I trip over the wall that’s always been there and can’t help but tumble ass first into love instead of falling. I don’t really want to know what he’s doing here; I don’t even need to know.
    “Come on Harp. I know you’re smarter than that.”
    I blush. He’s right. I am smarter than that. People only come to motels in this part of town for one reason and that’s me.
    “Well, I just wanted to make sure. My clients are important to me. I mean, what if you were here for someone else?”
    “Maybe I am,” he says smiling big.
    At first it hurts my feelings a little, but then I realize it’s just who he is. Sullivan never means what he says. When we were together, I learned what filter I should apply to Sullivan. Maybe that’s why it never hurts for long. The telescopes I would use for research come with a bunch of different lenses, each one a different strength. Like these telescopes, I use certain lenses when it comes to observing others. I’ve found that most people are just light pollution and there are very few real stars. With Sullivan, I have to apply the strongest lens possible and edit like crazy to get to the true light source. If I had to pin Sullivan down as a star, which I think he could be, rather dim though, I would have to say he’s a neutron star. A densely packed ball of mass, mostly shit, spinning furiously with very little concern on the effect it has on all the matter surrounding him. His warp on space-time and gravity is undeniable.
    “I doubt that,” I say jokingly but sure of myself. I feel my red caked lips rake into a smile across my teeth.
    Red is the color with the longest wavelength. It’s the last color you see before all visible light disappears. So, naturally, when Blake died I started to paint my lips with it constantly. I wear red lipstick with intense pride and satisfaction. I still remember the first time I put it on.
    Blake and I were seven months into our relationship. I shopped all day to find the perfect shade of red. Finally, after investing all day into my search I bought four different tubes. That night, after work, I rushed home as fast as I could so that I would have plenty of time to put each one of them on. It must have taken hours for me to blend a few of them together. In the end, I finally got that perfect red hue that I imagine Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter would have looked like. When Blake knocked on the door, I opened it zealously revealing my labor of love. His eyes darted directly to my lips. When I asked if he liked it, he didn’t answer me. He didn’t have to. Before we left I went into the bathroom and wiped it off. Later he admitted that it made me look unnatural. He said red was too rebellious for someone like me. Like a flower being spray painted, he would say. It detracts from the beauty beneath it; a false front. In the Doppler Effect, objects moving further away from us appear red, so to speak, and when he died I saw my life and everything I once held close moving away from me near the speed of light.
    “So,” he starts, “I was going to get a room by myself for the night but...”
    “By yourself? I don’t believe that for a second.”
    “Either way, I’m here now and so are you. What does that say about you?”
    “That I like making money and you like spending it,” I say grinning.
    He smiles as his deep gaze suddenly drops to his feet. Sullivan may be an arrogant bastard, but he loved me more than either of us care to admit. He still looks at me the same way he did when we were together. There it is again, that pang of guilt. Except this time it’s a different kind. I try to ignore that one too because I can see it taking me somewhere else I don’t want to be.
    When Blake was alive, it was easy for me to forget about all the good times me and Sullivan had; all I could remember was how often we fought. But now... As he stands before me, his forearms pushing his grey Armani jacket back so that he can fit his attractive hands into his pockets, I see a man who still loves me. My heart aches. I feel like someone has punched me in the gut, my lungs burn and breathing is hard. When I look at him, I see a man whose heart has been broken; once when I left him for Blake and a little more every time we do this.
    Blake was like a breath of fresh air after being with Sullivan for nearly two years. When Sullivan and I would disagree, it would always end up in a battle of wills. Neither of us would surrender, even when there was a clear winner. Blake was different. He always let me win. It didn’t even matter if I was right or wrong, what obscenities I would scream at him, he always backed down. There were times I could tell that he was hurt over some of the things I said and I would apologize relentlessly for it. I guess the difference in Sullivan and Blake was pretty simple; one of them fought battles while the other focused on the war. Ultimately, Blake won me and every tiny particle of my being. My God, that man loved me and I him.
    “What if I said that I could produce the finest red wine you’ve ever had?” asks Sullivan.
    “Well then you know it’d have to come in with you,” I say biting my lower lip.
    I know I shouldn’t be doing this, not again. For the last two and a half months, I have slept with Sullivan more than I ever did when we were actually together. I only agreed to it in the beginning for the wine. That is one thing I loved about him; his wine cellar. He has some of the most expensive and rarest wines in the world. His family has collected them for generations. Last year, when Sullivan got married, I heard that he wouldn’t let his new wife, Candace, uncork a bottle for their wedding or even their honeymoon. Yet here he is, pulling a bottle of vintage 1995 L’Ermita Spanish red wine out of his car for me.
    “Why don’t you go in and get us a room. I’m just going to freshen up for a second.”
    “Sure thing,” he says tucking his black hair behind his ear with his free hand.
    As he walks towards the office of the motel, I roll my window back up and turn off the car. My fingers turn slow circles on my exposed thighs. Zero, pi over two, pi, three pi over two, two pi... Three months ago, when Blake passed away, I was sent to see a psychiatrist. They said that I needed grief therapy because it was such a surprise. As if knowing about it ahead of time is any easier. One of the techniques they taught me to deal with remembering was disassociation. They told me that when I find myself starting to get upset to focus on something else. That’s when I started making the circles. Math is something I can get lost in. So when my mind floats back to him, I start counting in radians. It’s to the point that I can’t think about him longer than a few seconds before my index finger finds my leg and starts at zero. I’ve counted a lot of circles so far today, more than usual. I see him in my rearview mirror. He holds up the keys, so I get out and walk towards him.
    When we get into the room, the smell of mold and mildew is over powering. Sullivan sits on the edge of the bed and when our eyes meet I feel sick. I need a drink, I say to myself. I grab the corkscrew and wine bottle he set on the table next to the door and hand it to him. Sullivan is the only man that I allow to pay me in wine. I hear him chuckle as he sits on the bed with the bottle.
    “Don’t judge me,” I say.
    “It’s hard not to.”
    “I know, but just don’t, okay?”
    “Fine, I won’t,” he lies with a smirk on his face.
    He uncorks the bottle carefully making sure not to spill it. He lifts it to his nose, taking in the fragrant smells of vintage wine. I hand him one of the plastic cups from on top of the dingy old microwave beside the door. He chuckles again. I feel the corners of my mouth as they involuntarily upturn into a big smile. I have to admit, it’s pretty comical to watch him pour expensive wine into a plastic motel cup. The smile fades soon though when I realize where I am and what’s about to happen. I just need this drink. He swishes the wine around the cup and takes a small sip.
    “It’s wonderful,” he says, his arm outstretched, cup in hand. I take the cup from him and bring it to my lips. I smell the strong aroma of grapes and then upturn it, taking all of it in in one short gulp. He tries to hide a smile as he pours himself a cup’s worth. I take off my trench coat and sit on the bed beside him. I look down towards my feet for what seems like eternity.
    “You know Harper, it doesn’t have to be like this,” he says sweetly beside me.
    My gaze turns from the beige carpet to his deep brown eyes. They haven’t forgotten me. My eyes haven’t forgotten his either. I keep thinking that faking love with Sullivan is better than accepting Blake’s death. The only way one can observe a black hole is by looking at all the matter that accumulates around it. When I’m away from Sullivan I feel myself being pulled towards the black hole Blake left in me. But when I’m with Sullivan, I feel like a star again. A single star. When Blake was alive we were two stars orbiting each other, a perfect binary.
    Scientists aren’t quite sure how binaries are formed. While it’s very unlikely for two stars to capture one another by gravity, it’s not totally impossible. The stars orbit an invisible point in the center where the gravity of each star balances the other out. Sometimes, because of distance, they appear as one star to observers here on Earth. That’s kind of like how me and Blake were; we were like one. When I first saw him, he captured me. After that, I was forever stuck in his gravitational field. We worked together, orbiting one another, revolving our lives around the other. When a star’s pressure becomes so great that it can’t resist its own gravity, it collapses. What’s leftover is a black hole. Black holes are invisible points of singularity so dense that nothing can escape it, not even light. When Blake died he became a black hole I couldn’t escape. So here I am, a lost lonely star being sucked in by something you can’t even see, stuck forever, bound by the laws of physics.
    “It will always be this way,” I say as I glance back towards my feet. Zero, pi over two, pi, three pi over two, two pi...
    “But it doesn’t have to be. Harper, I,” he starts.
    “Don’t,” I threaten. “Don’t you dare say it.”
    Before I have a chance to take the moment in, I’m on my feet with my handbag in one hand as my free hand digs through it. I grab my tube of red lipstick and throw the handbag back onto the grimy beige carpet. I walk fast towards the bathroom, the points of my heels stabbing at the ground. I slam the door shut and stare at myself in the mirror. I need another drink. I paint my lips scarlet and then admire them. He knocks at the door and I just inhale deeply and hold my breath.
    “Harper,” he says in a low voice. I exhale then turn to the door. I open it slowly with one hand and stand to face him. Our eyes lock, and for a moment I can’t breathe. My heart pounds. I don’t see Sullivan standing in front of me. No, it’s not him. It’s Blake. Memories of him come to me like a flood of rushing water, cutting and shaping rocks as it moves through a canyon.
    Summers of us laughing in the boat down by the lake, him in his sunglasses and me in my woven sun hat fill the dark room. The fragrances of roses laid down the hallway leading to an engagement ring invade my nostrils. The time we sat out on a blanket of grass under the stars with me pointing out all the constellations to him, us admiring the night sky together. When he spoke, I couldn’t help but listen; it was like bees carrying home nectar to make honey, his voice soft and sweet. Our wedding was small. We were surrounded by close friends and family, happy to finally be one. We were only married for four months. He was taken from me before we even had our first married fight, before we tried to have children, and before I even had a chance to say goodbye.
    “You should go,” I say firmly.
    “But,” he starts.
    “Leave!” I scream slamming the door to the bathroom shut again. I don’t what’s gotten into me this time. I wait until I hear the door to the motel close then I storm back into the bedroom. He always leaves the wine behind after our weekly rendezvous. What good is an opened bottle of wine to him other than an opportunity for his wife to find out that her husband isn’t faithful? Besides, I always enjoy it more than he would. Usually I take my time with it, savoring every sip like it was my last. Not tonight. I walk back into the bathroom so that I can put on more red lipstick after I drink. I just want to forget, so I turn it vertical, closing my eyes. I widen my throat so that it can flow down easier, like water through a pipe. Red wine streams down my chest, through my white bustier. It covers the cheap bathroom tile. When the bottle is empty I throw it to the floor and fall to my knees. Zero, pi over two, pi, three pi over two, two pi... It’s not working. My index fingers are creating furious circles, but nothing can erase Blake Flynn from my mind at this moment. Tears begin to fall like fat rain drops collecting on my cheeks and falling to my chest. There are no words to describe the pain I feel in my chest and my tears won’t make any room for more. I’ve never felt anything like this before. My hands fling to cradle my eyes like little accidental vessels, containing the rain. Why did this have to happen? Why did he leave? This is not what I planned!
    I sit on my knees, my hands still over my face for what I feel like is days. Finally, after crying every drop of liquid my body can muster, I stand up from the plastic floor. When I look in the mirror, I see red everywhere. My lips are blood red and my chest is stained a light shade of red too. Blake was right; the color red just doesn’t look good on me.

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