Matthew Gigg

Cashmere Ivory Toque, or Fresh Aegean Feta

There was no indication she was being heard, but Rowan continued talking.

“It’s called Pickled Asparagus,” she said. “Truthfully, I picked it more for the name than the color, but it’s a nice earthy green, especially in the sunlight.”

The painter nodded politely and spread a freckled cloth drop-sheet across a worn wooden floor. Rowan continued talking because there was judgment in silence.

“Shame it has to go, but the landlord wants it back to white. My partner and I thought we’d be staying a bit longer when we painted it.”

“They don’t usually like anything other than white, grey, or beige,” the painter said. “Landlords, I mean.”

“Yes, I know. We thought we’d be here longer… Do you think you’ll be able to finish by five ‘o’clock? We have dinner plans.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue.”

The painter went to his truck for more supplies. Rowan knew she wouldn’t be able to talk through the whole job like she had with the corpulent man who’d been sent to appraise the house last week, so she took the opportunity to flee to her office – a laptop on an old table on an old rug in the cellar, where Rowan was working on a collection of short stories that focused on alienation in contemporary life.

Today she was hoping to finish the first draft of an idea she’d been mulling over: a geometric family goes for a winter walk in the park. The older child resembled a square—a broad-shouldered boy who insisted on wearing a hockey jersey over a jacket over a sweater, and skinny jeans for pants. So, a square on two legs. The younger child was a circle – a chubby little girl in a puffy winter jacket and puffy snow pants who waddled everywhere with arms hanging spheroidally at her sides. Their father was, as most brawny vainglorious men are, an inverted triangle. An isosceles, maybe, to give him some depth. They would trudge through the park having experiences somehow unique to their shapes and feel uncomfortably alone. There would be tears and misunderstandings and, in the end, the isosceles would remember a time he’d gone to the park with his parents when he was younger—three triangles having the time of their lives. Then, he would finally reflect on the homogeny that shaped his understanding of the world. Or maybe he would make some dense comment on the incongruity of modern families. The ending would all depend on how bitter Rowan was feeling when she got there. So, that was the rough plan. It was nothing ground-breaking, but it didn’t matter. The bulk of the collection would be filled with previously published work, this would just help flesh it out. Still, Rowan hoped something unexpected might emerge as she wrote.

So, she started: Snow began to fall as H. walked the kids over the trembling pedestrian bridge that spanned first the boulevard and then the—THUD. The floorboards rattled above her head. Rowan slunk upstairs under the guise of getting a glass of water. She glanced from the kitchen to the living room, where the painter had just set down a massive plastic bucket of paint.

“What color is that?”

The painter furrowed his brow and stared at her.

“White, yes, I know. But what’s its official name? Like, Homemade Whipped Cream, or Chipmunk’s Belly?”

“Oh, uh… Mould Resistant White Interior™.” 

“Hmm.”

Rowan went back downstairs and continued writing. The painter switched on a radio upstairs and brash rock music slipped through the bare rafters. Rowan frowned. Halfway through her first paragraph, she cocked her ears. Had he turned it up? After deleting and rewriting the paragraph four times, she was convinced—the painter was slowly increasing the volume. Rowan went upstairs to check on his progress. A misshapen white rectangle filled the north wall, still framed in pickled asparagus. The painter was rolling his roller in the tray.

“Sorry, is the music too loud?”

Rowan suppressed a smile. A preemptive apology. She knew that game.

“No, not at all,” she eyed the wall. “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but shouldn’t you paint the edges with a brush first? So you can minimize the brush marks with the roller after?”

“Gonna take two coats, likely. This is a pretty dark base. Appearances don’t matter much on the first coat.”

“Hmm.”

Rowan went back downstairs, put headphones on – the intense wintry brass arrangements from Arvo Pärt’s Arbos, full volume on repeat—and continued writing.

Two pages later, she emerged and cracked her back. This was a good start. The family had arrived at the park and their descriptions were complete. Rowan had added a mother character – a shapely woman, a series of wonderful crescents that, unfortunately, remained hidden beneath a broad-shouldered bulky winter coat that transformed her into a triangle like her husband. Now, Rowan thought, some tension had to build.

Upstairs, the music stopped. Rowan slipped into the living room to find the painter truant. Three rough rectangles smeared across three of four walls, still sans edging. A thick drip of lazy paint wept down the west wall. Rowan pressed at a congealing white bubble and tutted. She picked up the roller and touched it up. Then she found herself with a paintbrush in hand, so she started working on filling in the edges.

The painter returned with coffee and a bemused frown. Rowan stepped off the ladder with a quick apology. Before the painter could say anything, she changed the subject.

“I could have fixed you a coffee if you wanted.”

“I, uh…” he shook a confrontation from his head. “No, that’s fine. I enjoyed the walk. Nice to get some fresh air and take a break.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s what I was doing too – taking a break. Well, should you need another coffee, don’t hesitate to ask.”

She set down the brush and hurried downstairs.

The churr of the painter’s roller in the tray and his heavy, unvarying footsteps, as he moved across the final wall, provided the rhythmic background for another page. When his movement stopped, so did Rowan. She read back what she had written. Sprawling paragraphs of exposition – bare trees beneath an overcast sky, an empty skating rink, fresh snow… Nothing to indicate an eventual challenge to the comfortable world of her isosceles patriarch.

“Hmm,” she said. 

The rock music, she realized, hadn’t started back up. Perhaps she had intimidated the painter earlier or put him on edge by intruding on his work. Maybe she should let him know not to worry, that he could turn his music back on. As she started up the stairs, she heard the low droning of conversation. Was someone else in the house? Rowan briefly panicked. But no, it was just the painter. He was leaning casually against the kitchen counter, his back to her, talking on his phone. A parallelogram, Rowan thought as she lingered in the doorway studying him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her.

“Gotta go,” he mumbled quickly. Then, to Rowan, “It’s getting there.”

“What shape do you think I am?” she asked. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Like, I was looking at you just now, in your bulky overalls leaning against the counter, and I thought, parallelogram. What shape do you think I am?” Rowan propped a polygonal hand to her hip. 

“I, uh, I’m not really comfortably answering that.”

“I mean, without the overalls, you’re probably just a triangle.”

The painter tightened his lips and looked toward the work he still had left.

“Hmm, okay then. Just a little thought experiment, don’t worry about it.” 

Rowan returned to the cellar, deleted the rambling exposition, and stared at a blank white page. Uninspired mould-resistant white interior, she thought. She jotted down a note for herself: a challenge can be as simple as being asked to reflect on how you see others. Or how others see you. Maybe there was something here? 

At eleven-thirty, the painter announced he had to let the first coat dry and would be back in a few hours. Rowan went upstairs and stood in the living room to appraise the new color. The landlord had insisted on having the job done professionally—with how the market was, he likely wanted to sell the house, or, if that didn’t work, he could at least hike the rent beyond something Rowan could afford. Still, his greed was undercut by his miserliness. It was cheap paint from a cheap painter. The charm of Pickled Asparagus was still visible under the flimsy gauze of Mould Resistant White Interior™. Like bare skin under taut wet cloth, Rowan thought. The east wall had the freshest coat, so she ran a firm finger along its bottom right corner, smudging off a few centimeters of paint. Here, she reasoned, the next coat would still be the first, so keen-eyed future tenants or owners would spot a hint of green. A strip of her skin was still in the house.

Rowan returned to the cellar and continued writing. She tried to throw her characters into situations that would irritate the father and force him to reckon with their differences: the mother takes off her coat to brush out the snow from an errant snowball and complains as she shivers in a form-fitting sweater; the son, bored and restless, sits down and refuses to move; the daughter wails for attention after intentionally rolling down a small, snowy hill. Still, nothing budged the father’s calm, hegemonic mood. It wasn’t enough. After each incident, Rowan couldn’t help but write, he strolled ahead, magnanimous, idly commenting on the weather. Either he was patient, oblivious, or both. Rowan couldn’t shake him.

Upstairs, the front door opened and closed. Rowan cursed herself. She had forgotten to make lunch while the painter was out. She slunk upstairs to see him sipping another cup of coffee.

“I told you I could make you another if you wanted.”

“No problem. I was out anyways.”

“Well, it might be perceived as rude, you know, to ignore the offer.”

The painter arched his eyebrows, unsure what to say.

“Um, okay, maybe if—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rowan cut him off. “Forget I said anything.” 

She stood quietly with a thumb on her lip, glancing at the line she’d smudged in the corner. If the painter noticed, he didn’t let on.

“Well,” he said, “I hope you don’t perceive this as rude, but if you want this job finished by five, I should get back to it.”

He turned his back and started to pry the lid off the paint can. Rowan flinched and retreated downstairs. She reviewed the little rising action she’d managed to write. It was all too on the nose and none of it did anything to challenge the triangle. There had to be something to push him. To make him say, “Why are you doing it like that? That’s not how you do it.” Only to the circle though. Criticism would be directed solely at the chubby little girl. Always. Rowan knew this well. And whatever the issue was, her brother would side with the father. This was just the way things were. Because underneath the hockey jersey and winter coat and sweater, he was just a triangle too. Of course, he was. She let out a defeated sigh.

Why had she framed her story like this? What was it even saying?  She felt confined by the shapes themselves. In the real world, there weren’t that many differences between people anyway. It was just the incited many against the few, the structure against the subject, the cumulative versus her…

She closed the document and stared at her desktop. Upstairs, the painter switched on the radio again, but Rowan didn’t put on headphones. She was too flustered to continue working anyway. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would regroup with fewer distractions. She spent the rest of the afternoon refreshing her email, scrolling through her phone, and ignoring her grumbling stomach. The kitchen was too visible from the living room. She didn’t move again until she heard the painter call out from the top of the stairs.

“All done.”

She went up and pretended to inspect his work.

“Looks good to me. Not that that matters.” 

She went to the kitchen to make herself look busy as he carried his gear out of the house, not daring to head toward the front door until she was certain all she had to do was say goodbye and lock up behind him.

“I thought about it,” he said as he stood on her front stoop, “and shape-wise, I think you’re a trapezoid. It’s kinda got a bad sound to it, but that’s not how I mean it. Don’t ask me to explain, just a feeling, you know?”

What the hell was she supposed to say to this? 

“Okay. Well, thank you then. Enjoy your evening.”

 Rowan stepped into her living room and felt the overwhelming weight of Mould Resistant White Interior™. This wouldn’t do. She flicked on the lights and looked at it. Hand-Milled Flour, she mused, or Cashmere Ivory Toque. No! Fresh Aegean Feta.

It was well after five now. No messages, of course. There were no dinner plans. She had made up her partner to feel more comfortable while her house was under siege. Still, she imagined someone coming home. Someone not so different from a trapezoid that they failed to understand one another, though just different enough that they wouldn’t grow tired of their sameness. Someone who understood why Mould Resistant White Interior™ couldn’t be the way they left this house before moving somewhere new, somewhere together. Someone who might suggest something wry and macabre like Sun-Kissed Bone or Endless White Abyss. 

She went back to the cellar. What she had written today was feeble. Colorless drivel, even for a first draft. Still, she started through it sentence by sentence, searching for something to save. A quality to pull from.

Matthew Gigg is a writer based in Calgary, Canada, where he lives with his partner and two cats. Most recently, his work has appeared in Grain, CIRQUE, and Blank Spaces.