The Woman Named Woe
by Jacqueline Hyatt
Arizona State University
Jacqueline Hyatt is an undergraduate at Arizona State University. A member of the Creative Writing Concentration, she writes about the complexities of human relationships, growth, and the consequences of apathy. Her recent work has been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, Applause, and Canyon Voices. She volunteers as Fiction Editor with Blood+Honey.
It was 9:57 when I first saw you. You had a bright red umbrella under your arm. A knitted beanie was tugged snuggly over your ears, and your blonde bangs coiled around your face. I could tell that you were cold by the way pink pooled across your nose and cheeks, and by the way that you caved into your cream cotton hoodie. You stood at the Smithsonian Station, waiting for the metro.
I first saw the red that rimmed your bright blue eyes and realized you were crying. You did not bother to wipe your tears away. You were too caught up in the deep hue of grief, your chin tilted up to the arched ceiling as if caught in a prayer. The rattling sigh that slipped past your lips was an accusation, a question: why?
You white-knuckled a bouquet. The plastic hugging the daisies crackled as you readjusted your grip. It was like music. You only stood there for about a minute before the metro arrived. Just before you stepped aboard, a daisy slipped from the bouquet. After the metro sped away, I walked over and picked it up. I still have that daisy, pressed between pages of The Great Gatsby.
A week before I saw you, I was sitting in class. My professor announced the National Gallery of Art was opening a program and encouraged his students apply by the end of the semester. I approached him after the lecture as the rest of the students poured out of the classroom.
My professor smiled when I told him my name. “Ah, you’re the student who won that art scholarship last semester. Your still life was great!”
His smile wavered when I revealed my interest in the program. “You’d have a shot, but it’s extremely competitive. It attracts applications from across the country.”
“Do you think I have what it takes to get into the program?”
“You have outstanding technical skill, but art is more than just brush strokes. You lack direction. Your art has no emotion, no meaning. Your work doesn’t move me. Maybe you could play around with the emotions behind your work more.”
I wrung my hands together. “What should I do?”
My professor started for the lecture hall door. “If you’re interested in the program, I’d go find some inspiration. Your work should show what you’re trying to say as an artist. Come back to me with a painting that makes me feel what you feel and then we’ll talk.”
When I saw you at the station, I knew that you must be what I was looking for. I did not see you again for a long time and your face began to fade. Doe-eyes fell into a dull slush. I thought of you often. I thought of you when I waited for my morning coffee, when I dragged scalpel against clay in my ceramics class, thought of you when trapped between the confines of my sweat-soaked sheets. If I saw you one more time, I could craft a masterpiece. I waited for you at Smithsonian Station, sat on metros headed for nowhere. My destination was your face, to find it before it faded completely.
When I saw you again, it was not where I expected. You were under the ancient, twisted tree that grew at the center of Georgetown campus. The awning of its crooked branches hung over you. You sat cross-legged on the grass by the tree’s knobby roots, your computer resting in your lap. Your fingertips danced along your keyboard like spider legs. The candy-red of your shirt brought me back to that night at Smithsonian Station.
I sat down on the bench across from you, flipping open my sketchbook and putting pencil to paper. I drew the scrunch between your eyebrows as you concentrated on your computer screen. It was cute, how you stuck out your tongue while you typed.
It surprised me when you looked up. Maybe you could feel my eyes passing over you. I scrambled to pack my things. I had never been caught drawing someone before. You walked up to me before I could escape. “Um,” was the first sound that you made. Pretty insignificant, but it was the first time I heard your voice. Soft, yet the cutting edges of your diction demanded my attention. “Hi,” you continued, “were you—uh—drawing me?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, my face hot. “I’m sorry. Yeah, I… was working on an assignment for my art class. You looked like you’d be fun to sketch.”
“Can I see it?”
I handed you my sketchbook, squirming slightly under your gaze. I winced as you traced my version of you with a finger. Your lips curled into a smile. “This is amazing! Um, can I have it? I’ll pay for it!”
I could smell your jasmine perfume and it was dizzying. Now that you stood so close, I could not find it in myself to let you fly away so soon. “That’s okay. You can have it, but… only if you let me buy you a coffee. It’s the least I can do after invading your privacy.”
I now know that you don’t like coffee. If you drink too much you have trouble sleeping. You thought I was cute, so you were willing to suffer through the caffeine to talk to me. You told me your name, but that is irrelevant. I learned that your favorite color is red, that you hate the cold, and that you have an emotional support cat who does little to calm your qualms. I tuned out most of the things you said, your voice blurring into a hum. I was focusing on the way that your lips formed around your words, the way your leg bounced as we waited for our coffees. Then you slipped away, taking my sketch with you.
I returned to my professor with a painting of you. I stood in his cramped, clattered office as he inspected my work. He sat down in his chair with a sigh. “It’s a wonderful start.”
I scowled down at my painting, a knot settling at the bottom of my stomach. It still was not enough.
My professor crossed his arms at my expression. “You know, this program doesn’t define you. Whether you get in or not means nothing. What matters is what you think about your art. You should you like your art, like what it means to others. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“Yeah,” I managed. He did not think that I was good enough, I could tell. I grabbed my work and left his office. I needed this painting to be perfect. I had a lot more work to do.
Now that I knew where you were hiding since our first night at the station, I could find you easily. Your blonde curls bounced as you rushed between classes, vibrant red lips contrasting a black cashmere sweater. I took every opportunity to draw you. You read by a window in the library and ate often at an underground restaurant, Tombs, down the road.
It was late one night when you tapped me on my shoulder. I was walking back from the campus library after studying for midterms. You surprised me. I was usually the one to seek you out, not the other way around.
“Um, hi!” You tend to start a lot of your sentences with ‘um.’
“Hey,” I offered you a shy smile. “You’re… the woman that I sketched a few weeks ago, right?”
“Yeah! You took me out for coffee. Do you remember my name?”
“Of course I remember.” Of course I remembered.
You invited me to eat at Tombs with you. I watched you eat there so many times at this point, I already knew what you were going to order: BLT, no mayo, with fries and an iced tea. After dinner, I walked you back to your apartment. You worried at the hem of your sleeve when you asked for my number. Looking so cute and helpless, how could I refuse? Besides, I had been wanting to paint you nude. The facade of flirtation was a good masque for an artist to hide behind.
I always admired you from afar, my muse. It took me a while to get used to being so close to you and you actually knowing I was there. We spent many nights on your couch watching movies, flinging popcorn into each other’s mouths. I noticed that you would sit closer to me as movies meandered by.
Things shifted on a dreary September evening. Lightning scratched the sky and rain clashed against your window like claws against glass. You insisted that I stay the night. You did not want me to catch a cold. I got ready for bed, not looking forward to sleeping on the couch. I stood in your bathroom, the sink littered with different products, and brushed my teeth. I turned to find you leaning against the doorframe, a crooked grin on your face. I bared my teeth back and you laughed at me.
“What?”
“You have toothpaste on your cheek.”
I pressed my wrist against my face.
“The other side, genius.” You walked up to me, running your thumb over my cheek. “Here, let me help you. See? Easy.”
You stood up on your toes, an unsure pause between us. I knew what you wanted, knew what I had to do to get what I needed. I leaned down and let you kiss me. You grinned and told me that I tasted like toothpaste. I drew you that night, while you slept. You—
Stop squirming so much. I am trying to explain myself and I feel that you are not bothering to listen to me.
Now, what was I saying? Ah, right, I remember. We blossomed as orange and red fell off the campus’ maple trees. We spent the fall dancing in your living room, and cooking in your claustrophobic kitchen. In return for my affection, you allowed me to paint you however I wanted. But as the snow started to blanket the barren ground, a similar cold started to separate us.
It was a bitter November morning when your cat went missing. She did not scurry around the corner when you shook her food bowl. Your eyebrows pinched together as you called her name, but she did not come. You tore your apartment apart, overturning chairs and flinging open cabinets. I watched you wail her name as you searched. You found her in the washing machine. Luckily, it was not a laundry day. The Scottish Fold purred as you squeezed her in your arms. I wonder what would have happened if I hid her better, or if it had been a laundry day, but I got what I wanted in the end. I heard the way your voice caught in your throat when you wondered whether she was gone for good, saw the tears swimming in those beautiful blue eyes. It took me back to the night I first saw you.
I knocked on my professor’s apartment door late that night. His lips downturned when he saw me. He stayed behind the door and spoke through the crack. It was as if he was using the wood as a shield. “How did you find out where I live?”
“I have another painting I was hoping you would look at.”
“It’s midnight—
“Please,” I begged.
He sighed, propping the door open with his foot. His eyes widened when I showed him my work. “This is breathtaking! I can see the fear in this painting. The cat in the washing machine is a unique perspective too. You’ve gotten better.”
I frowned. “I’m still missing something.”
My professor hesitated. “You think so?”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, ignoring the slight taste of iron. I tried to take a deep breath. “I can tell that I’m missing something,” I repeated.
My professor gave me a sad smile. He retreated further behind the door. “The deadline for submitting your work is at the end of the semester, in about a week.” I knew what he was really saying. My window was closing.
The time ticked by, slowly subtracting the days until the deadline. I was still not ready, not enough. I watched as you took a final bite from a slice of pizza. You were talking. It annoyed me when you talked. It was not your job to talk. You were the model, not the artist. I stared at your acrylics. They were stripes of red and white because you wanted to get into the jolly holiday spirit, but the color mimicked offal and bone rather than candy-canes. I watched as you drummed them against the table.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?”
Your eyes caught mine. The bright blue melted into a dull gray, the color of the winter storm thundering just outside your apartment. The wind howling reminded me of the metro screeching to a stop at Smithsonian Station. Where did that first night go?
You sighed, clouded eyes lowering to the table. “Look… I don’t think this is going the way we want it.”
“I don’t see what the problem is.”
“I just—I’m done—okay? You don’t listen to me! I feel like you aren’t even interested in who I am! You don’t want to come home with me for the holidays, you’ve never introduced me to your friends. I’m not even sure you like me… you’re just using me for your stupid drawings.”
“You can’t leave,” I stated simply. I still needed you to be my muse.
You scoffed. “Being with you makes me feel like I… I’m dead! I can’t do this anymore. I think you should go. Please.”
Your eyes brimmed with tears, Grecian Sea vivid. In that moment, I realized what I was missing. It was not you who was my muse. It was the way that you cried. The rich red lipstick was my muse, the way that your knuckles turned white as you gripped that bouquet of daisies.
“I want you to go.” You repeated more forcefully.
Your eyes tracked my movement as I creeped to the kitchen counter. I could hear your breath hitch when I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of a kitchen knife. I do not think either of us were expecting me to do that. But as I let my fingers settle into a grip, the pieces of the future locked into place. It was irreversible, the way it should be. The fight was fast. You hit your head against the cabinets pretty hard.
And here we are now. I am sorry that I tied you to the radiator. I am not really fond of the smell of burning flesh, but it was too cold in here. You said you hated the cold, after all. Still, the zip tie must hurt against your wrists. I can see them digging into your skin. You know squirming is useless. You need to stay still; I can force you to be still. How else am I supposed to create a masterpiece? I want to tell you who you are, my version of you. You are red and blue all over, and it will get worse. My work has only just begun.
Months have drifted by since I submitted my work. I spend a lot of this time trying to soak up what little of you is left. I go to Tombs often, try to smell your jasmine perfume hanging in the air. I sit by the window you used to read by in the library, letting the sun sink into my skin. I often wonder if my time with you was worth it.
Then, today I received an email from my professor. He wanted to meet with me during his office hours. He was startled when I swung open his office door. He offered me a wide grin. “Hey! Thanks for meeting me in such short notice.”
I inched further into the cluttered space, picking at my skin as the man across from me paced his office. “Well… I’m not really supposed to share this with you since the decisions about the program have not been released yet—but I can’t help myself! I saw the painting you submitted, the one you titled ‘The Woman Named Woe.’ Absolutely incredible! The shades of red are so… vibrant! And the look on the woman’s face is chilling! You can almost feel her pain.”
“Thank you,” I offered a smile. “It took me a while to perfect the reds. I found that I needed more natural materials to perfect the piece.”
The professor stopped pacing. “Well, I’m happy to inform you that you were accepted!”
I felt the knot that had built up in my chest since fall unravel. I could not stop a smile from slipping onto my face.
The professor returned my smile. “Well, now you’ll just have to keep it up!”
I hesitated. “I’m sorry?”
“Your work was outstanding, but where you’re going, you’ll need to take your art to the next level. But you got in! You should be very proud of yourself!”
I sank down into the seat across from my professor’s desk, heart rattling in my ribcage. You were not enough; I was not enough. The red is still stained on my fingertips, even though I scrubbed it all away. I got in, could keep getting through by the skin of my teeth, but there would always be more art. They will need more, always need more, and I will never be enough.