Sixteen
T he first thing Jasmine wanted to do when the call ended was tell Burak, of course. But when the thought popped into her mind that maybe he was only telling her he wanted her to stay when in reality he was relieved to have a “get out of jail free” card as far as their relationship was concerned, she put down the phone, leaving it in the living room to charge while she went into the spare bedroom and dug out her paints and an abandoned canvas.
“Sorry boys,” she told Cheddar and Gator as she closed the door between them. “Cats and wet paint don’t go together.”
Jasmine lost herself on the canvas for the first time in ages. Maybe it was the news that she was putting down roots, that she was home for good now, that there was no big “next step” weighing on her that demanded to be figured out in the near future. The colors whirled, her brush moving freely as she focused only on how it felt to see the canvas transform, with no concern for what the end result might be.
For once, it wasn’t about creating something specific, about a product that would have commercial value or be appreciated by anyone else who looked at it. The only thing that mattered was this moment, the joy of playing with color and texture, the feel of the brush gliding across the surface, and the glorious and entirely unfamiliar way her mind emptied itself of worries and concerns.
If it wasn’t a metaphor for life, she didn’t know what was.
By the time Jasmine had washed the paint from her hands and fallen into bed, the lightness had permeated all the way to her bones. She hadn’t known how heavily the impending stresses had been weighing on her until they were gone. But now, her concerns about what would happen to the cats, what could have been with Burak, and where she would be resting her head…all of it was gone, replaced with gratitude. No matter what happened with Burak, even if his face fell when she told him the news and he made a graceful exit from her life, she was home and the future was bright.