On a Bridge Over Dry Soil in Summer
Relationship: Leon x reader x Ashley
Welcome to my delusion, in which Leon is a forensic psychology, Ashley is a philosophy and reader is a super-smart physics student in college. Enjoy.
Warnings: Anxiety, stressed reader, elements of self-loathing, imposter syndrome, minor cringe
"A man is a husband next to his wife, an employee where he works, a god in the eyes of his dog. The for-self thing is recreated constantly by the relations it forms with its surroundings."
Chapter 1 : That Explains the Radiation, Chapter 2: I Was Tired an Hour Ago, Chapter 3: If You Lived Forever, Chapter 4: Silhouettes Suspended on Dust
You are feeling a little... unnecessary. And that's putting it mildly. The white walls stand in sharp contrast to the colors on the paintings and the smiling faces of all the other artists stand in sharp contrast to yours.
And why did I think this was a good idea?
You chose painting from the Department of Fine Arts as an elective course because your curriculum had 2 mandatory non-technical electives in it and you definitely do not want to try to learn playing an instrument. For a 3-credits course. No, thank you. That shit is for the strong-willed.
Now you are in the final exposition. Everyone who brought their paintings in gets a straight AA, others FF. Good bargain, so you keep telling yourself. Good bargain. Paint something. Anything. Just spread the color on the canvas.
You felt exposed when you brought your paintings in, put them up, waited in front of them as visitors began to walk in through the door one by one. Now though, you are feeling something worse than exposed, no one is interested in what you made a big deal of sharing.
You fiddle with the hem of your skirt. Black tie formal. Serious. Elegant.
Unlike you.
Christ.
You are told specifically that looking at phones is forbidden. So, you just watch as people swim back and forth in the sea of shared ideas and feelings. You wish you could share yours to an audience that listened.
"Hello."
You avert your gaze from the nothing in the middle of the room and look at the person greeting you. You must have a stupid look on you right now, you are sure of it.
"Hi." Your motor skills kick in, betraying no grouchy crybaby behavior.
"Are you the artist of this painting?" The woman asks with a kind voice, like she is happy to see more about the painting if you want them to, and sorry to bother you if not.
"Yes. Yes, I am." Everything you say feels weird.
"It looks interesting." She says, and you immediately console yourself.
This is what people say when they mean it is not shit.
“Thank you.” You respond politely, with a soft smile.
At least someone is acknowledging you. Be grateful, you lunatic.
“It is very different from the other paintings.” The woman tells you. You wait for a moment, thinking there is more coming, but turns out that was merely a conversation starter.
"Well, there wasn't any particular task they gave us. So, yeah... I guess everyone just went free-style." You say, not giving much to build a conversation on, but the woman looks interested all the same, attentive even.
"Would you like me to tell you what I was trying to do here?" You ask shyly. Explaining your art is such a shitty thing to do, it is the literary equivalent of a cook making a brave yet otherwise inexplicable dish and saying "so this is my pizza", but today is a shitty day apparently, and why resist with so much force and end up tired?
"Yes, please." The woman answers with an even brighter smile and you feel yourself getting more confident.
"So, I had Sartre's existentialism in my mind when I was painting this. You see, Sartre said that there are two types of things. For-self and in-self. The latter is something that is precisely what it is. A table, a car, a shoe... It doesn't matter what it does or where it is. Even if you try to use the shoe to clean a window, it will still be a shoe. It is a thing that is in-itself. And the former is, well, a man is a good example for the former. A man is a husband next to his wife, an employee where he works, a god in the eyes of his dog. The for-self thing is recreated constantly by the relations it forms with its surroundings."
You look at your painting and point at it vaguely. "You see, the light reflecting off the building, the pavement and the cars is sharp. At every direction of this space, the same information of color propagates in the air so everyone is delivered the same image." You look briefly at the woman to weigh her reaction; you really hope she is not bored.
On the contrary, her mouth is slightly agape and her eyes rapidly move on the canvas, supposedly on the points where there are sharp brush marks indicating the absoluteness of the colors.
You smile slightly and continue, "But I have painted people like they dissipate colors that are not actually on them. It is like they radiate off their skin, all the colors. So, the observer is free to choose from the selection." You once again turn your attention to the woman. "So, yeah. That's the idea."
"Wow, that's... That's really beautiful." She extends her hand to you "I am Ashley. You?"
You introduce yourself, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiles, and gives one final look to your painting. “What’s your major?” she asks as she turns her attention back to you. You are beginning to think she has an offer to make.
“Physics.” you answer her with a tone that betrays no feelings of pride and confidence that used to accompany you when you were a freshman. You were going to be a girl scientist. You idiot.
“Oh.” She laughs softly, “that explains the radiation.”
You smile back with a small little something that’s close to contentment. The contentment of being seen. “Yeah.”
And a moment passes where it feels like something forgot to do something. You feel some unease from the silence. “Yours?”
“Philosophy.”
Your eyes widen slightly from realizing that you just explained Sartre’s existentialism to someone who studies philosophy. Like you weren’t feeling enough awkwardness.
“I didn’t know about Sartre’s existentialism.” she says with a sheepish grin. Your mind immediately drifts off to think about how fucking disoriented in the head you are. So, she doesn’t know about existentialism. So what? You see her rubbing her palms on her thighs every ten seconds? She just embraces her lack of knowing and throws in a sheepish grin. Like a fucking grown woman. Why can’t you be like her?
“That was very interesting for me.” you hope she didn’t say anything in between, because you definitely were not paying attention at that moment.
“I am glad you liked it.”
She smiles again and reaches for her phone. “Are you interested in philosophy in general?” she asks you with a tone and gesture that look impossibly sincere. You feel a rare sense of welcome that just makes you relaxed to the extent that you say what exactly you want to say.
“I am interested in ideas that have depth and insight. But I am not one for history of philosophy I am afraid.”
She smiles again. “Believe me, that’s the best way to be interested in it.” She takes her phone in her hand and opens her lockscreen. “Uhm, I’m just looking for a good excuse to ask for your number.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m looking for reading-buddy. Someone I can share and discuss books with. Would you be interested?” she asks you with home-made courage she does not expect you to see right away. She is shy too.
“Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.” You dial your number on her phone and let it deal with the rest.
“I guess I’ll see you around.” she says, before flashing a small smile and turning around to walk away.
Your eyes scan the room one last time before exiting the exposition hall for lunch, the thing carving your insides for whatever reason seems to be gone all of a sudden. The world is a quiet place, and you feel a rhythm in you.