Ronique & Frankie

Painting was something she loved. She loved envisioning what she would paint even more. Holding her paintbrush she could stare at the blank canvas for hours just imagining how she would transform it into something profound or silly or deranged. Ronique Rain had been known to provoke emotions people didn’t want to confront or even want to exist. Often viewers were brought to tears by her work, feeling something stir within them they thought long gone. It was those moments that drove Ronique to create and kept her curiosity heightened about the complexities of emotion, memory, and hidden inclinations. Feelings were forever a puzzle she would try to solve with shapes and paint strokes. Ronique sometimes felt like a detective when she worked. Each color a suspect, each completed piece a collection of their stories. The crime, the viewers’ thoughts she intentionally unearthed. 

One woman came up to her at a showing in Paris many, many years ago at the start of her career. The woman seemed to come out of no where, appearing as if an apparition and slapped Ronique in the face. She, Frankie, was convinced the featured piece, The Prowess, was based on an intimate moment they shared. It wasn’t. Ronique stood there in shock feeling the pain pulse in her cheek. Frankie stared at her, desperation and sorrow in her eyes. Frankie realized she’d fallen victim to Ronique’s gift or maybe it was a curse. Frankie apologized and quickly left the gallery in tears. They never spoke again, though Ronique still phoned her once in a while hoping to understand what Frankie saw that violently erupted. Hoping she could apologize for whatever it is she could to make her come back. Hoping they could rekindle what they had. Their romance was a whirlwind few weeks filled with hope and laughter, deep passion and esoteric exchanges. They shared something sincerely pure yet markedly fleeting. Frankie clung to the memory of their time. She still thought about what Frankie might’ve seen that made her feel so exposed, angry and hurt. Every once in a while she would remember a word or a phrase that would remind her of the abruptly lost relationship. It would be something Frankie made her read or said in passing. Frankie always had a way with words.

Ronique was thinking of calling her again at that moment, but decided it best to continue her task at hand. She was painting again, but nothing raw or intense, no. Just a wall in her new house.
She’d settled in nicely, but there was one wall in a bedroom she felt compelled to paint a dark red color. Blood Red is what it said on the label. Ronique was amused by the name, but fell in love with the color first. She’d seen it at a hardware store in her old neighborhood before she left. An older woman rang her up telling her she should be careful what she paints with the color. It stains, she said ominously.
Ronique popped open the paint and mixed it around with a large brush relishing in the feel of the motion and the familiar smell of fresh paint. It’d been a few months since she went on her hiatus. A much needed reprieve from the demands of clients and her studio, which was now the top floor of a building downtown. She missed her humble beginnings, painting in her apartment. A different type of studio space. Her bed was a pull out couch she would fold away every morning. Then pull out plastic bags she’d cut and taped together to cover the few pieces of furniture strewn about and paint for hours. Ronique appreciated having a formal space untwined from her daily life dedicated to her craft. It just felt strange to have an entire staff along with it.

Ronique closed her eyes and began to paint the wall. It was the first coat, so she wasn’t worried about spottiness or neatness, she just wanted to experience the feel, the smells, even the taste of painting again. She opened her eyes and watched the wet paint  drip a little, catching it with her brush and spreading it all along the wall. It felt like a dance she’s done so many times before falling into the comfortable lull stroke after stroke. Her mind drifted to a conversation she had with Frankie which she hadn’t remembered in its entirety until now.

They were at a restaurant in Paris. The lights were dim and soft music played in the background. A live band stood in the back corner their soft intonations floating like a breeze through the tables, gently circling silverware, lightly caressing ears. A young woman cooed softly into the microphone, enraptured by the sounds of the band she swayed with her eyes closed almost singing to herself, for herself. This was Frankie’s favorite night to be here. She relished the music and how it drastically changed the entire mood of the usually bustling atmosphere. This night only accommodated a small number of diners and everyone just seemed to be overall at peace. The clientele was distinctly different. The waitstaff could relax and would often sit down at tables with small parties and have conversations while they waited for food to be prepared. This was Ronique’s first time there and she remembered a warmth emanating from inside her. It was a remarkable calm she hadn’t experienced before surround by strangers. Frankie smiled knowingly as if she could also feel that warmth. She ordered drinks for both of them and asked a question Ronique typically hated, “So why do you paint?” It was especially interesting Frankie asked this because she’d asked it before. Ronique knew this was a tactic of hers to force a more thoughtful answer. She’d asked it before when they first met and Ronique gave her the answer she gave everyone. Frankie eyed Ronique playfully, flipped her long locs behind her, and sat her head on her hands moving her face closer to Ronique’s.
“Oh alright. You are too cute.”
“I know,” Frankie said devilishly.
“I paint because I can’t honestly do anything else. I really mean that. I can’t do anything else with honesty the way I do when I paint. I’ve tried to do other things and nothing seemed to feel right. I remember working at a creative agency doing design work. I was working with a client who was a multi-million dollar corporation that owned building, hotels, and provided all sorts of services. Get this. Most of their employees were clowns. No, I’m not kidding. Like actually dressed as clowns or previously worked as a clown. It was seriously the most bizarre job I did, but I loved that about it. It was different, you know? Initially, it was a challenge to not laugh during meetings for sure. I truly liked that project, but working with them helped me understand that it wasn’t my passion. I met some really passionate clowns at that company. They truly enjoyed dressing up and going to work everyday. It was something they loved doing and you could feel it. That’s they type of feeling I want to invoke when people see me painting or talking about my art or just talking about art in general.”
“Now, that’s more like it.” They stared at each other for a while smiling and kissed. Frankie pulled away, putting her hand on Ronique’s face. “You’re incredible.”
“Yeah, yeah. Your turn. Why do you write?”
“Oh no no no. That is for another time my little chicken tenderloin.”
“Did you just call me a chicken tenderloin?”
“I did. I love chicken tenders.”
“I mean. Same, but-” Frankie put a finger over Ronique’s lips.
“Let’s enjoy the music. Oh and our drinks are here. Maybe tonight I’ll let you paint me like one of those French girls.” They both laughed. 

Later Ronique would discover that Frankie wrote for very similar reasons, but her journey to self-discovery was much easier than Ronique’s. Frankie always knew what she wanted and everything just seemed to fall into place for her. Sometimes Ronique thought it was supernatural the way good things were drawn to her, but she brushed that silly thought off. It was nice to think about Frankie like this again, Ronique thought. It had been years since a clear memory like that surfaced. She continued painting the wall and would keep getting vivid flashes of Frankie. She decided to continue painting the entire room. By the time she was done she’d cried about 5 times and had to take numerous breaks. She relived her relationship with Frankie staring into the wall as she painted, almost in a trance. A beeping startled her. She looked at her phone and saw there was a single missed call from an unrecognized number and a voicemail. She sat on the floor of the room sweaty and exhausted, listening to the voicemail. It was Frankie.