16
Jem
Ruby creepsinto my life the way the morning sun sneaks through curtains and crosses the bed. Eventually the light shines in your face and you can’t hide anymore; a new day’s brightness waits for you to open up and let the warmth in.
Her presence in the house isn’t just the scent of her perfume that drifts towards me when I walk through the door, but little things like somebody else’s food in my cupboard, bits and pieces of her life spread across the kitchen counter.
Ruby tidies after herself, attempting to minimise her presence, but however hard we hide from each other and stick to minimal contact, we’re clearly sharing the same space. The last person who stayed here was Bryn and that was only three days. Ruby lived here over a week now.
Usually, I’m out until the evening, but I arrive home early from a meeting and come across Ruby sitting on the floor of the downstairs lounge with paper surrounding her, lidless coloured marker pens spread across the glass table. Her red guitar is slung over her skinny shoulders, hair pulled on top of her head in a loose bun. When she looks around in surprise, the thing that hits me the most is her face is clear of make-up.
With her pale lips and eyes free from heavy eyeliner, Ruby’s vulnerability shows through. She looks her age for once, but in her eyes, she’s older. She’s only half-Ruby. Is this Tuesday? She rubs her long fingers across her lips and, as ever, I wish I could taste them.
“Sorry, I’ll clear up.” Ruby pulls the guitar from over her shoulder and gathers the pens from the table.
“You don’t need to, I’m headed upstairs anyway.”
“To your den?” she asks with a smile.
“To my den.” I pick up a red marker. “Sweet pens. I didn’t realise you liked colouring.”
“Ha, ha. I’m writing.” Ruby lifts up a piece of paper containing unintelligible lines in different colours.
“Secret code? Cool.”
“I guess it is.”
I take the paper and examine the markings. I know what she’s written—something else I wish I didn’t share with Ruby, if I’m right. “I can decipher this.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “Sure you can.”
Sitting on the leather sofa, I pick up her guitar. Ruby opens her mouth to protest, as I would if somebody picked up one of mine. They’re an extension of myself—touching them is like touching me. “Pass me the sheet,” I say as I loop the strap over my neck.
Ruby’s way to write the notes is different to mine, the scrawl harder to decipher because her colours are different too. I play a couple of notes attempting to figure out which colours they match. The chords fall into place and I strum the opening lines of the song she’s writing.
“How can you know that’s what I wrote?” she asks quietly.
“This is music. Tricky because your E chord is yellow—that’s the colour of my C,” I tell her. “And your C Minor is orange—mine’s green. Some of our notes match though.”
Ruby lowers herself onto the coffee table and continues to stare. “You have synaesthesia? You see music as colours?”
I nod and concentrate on playing. “This is half-decent. Did you write the music today?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you always compose like this?”
“The only way I know how; I taught myself.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “Youarekidding me?”
“No. And thanks, a compliment from you means something.”
“Sure does, I don’t deal them out much.”
The look that passes is too heavy with the unsaid—the opportunity to talk about what else we have in common. I’m not sure what Ruby sees in my eyes, but she looks away.
Ruby carefully places the lids on the remaining pens. “But, really? You have synaesthesia, too?”