WEDNESDAY: Colour My World

BY C. INGRID DERINGER

Copyright is held by the author.

CHICAGO’S “Color My World” played through her radio speakers. She turned it up louder, her voice cracking as she sang along — swallowing the tears — wondering why she had added it to her playlist this morning. Each note reopens what never properly healed.

A familiar ache welled behind her eyes.

Don’t think about it.

But gazing at the bleak landscape stretching forever, the scenery begs her to go back —instead of the usual stuffing down. She can’t help herself.

It had been two days of following a highway she barely remembered. The last hours had been nothing but straight roads, no turns, just parched prairie grass stretched endlessly. Cattle dot the odd pasture. Antelope blur against the horizon. The kind of land that doesn’t ask for much. Just a quiet endurance.

She grabs her to-go cup and takes a swig of lukewarm coffee. She notices her hands—the skin seems transparent, purple veins mapping unfamiliar terrain, countless age spots even on the knobby knuckles. She sets the cup back down and grips the wheel tightly. Old lady hands. They look too wrinkled for 65, too dried up.

They danced to this song at his graduation. His soft tenor voice, a whisper in her ear, as they glided across the dance floor, the disco ball spinning above them, scattering fractured beams of blue, gold, and violet across the dimly lit gym. Lost in the moment, the world around them vanished. When the music swelled to its final note, he dipped her gently, their eyes lingering. The moment was fleeting but perfect, one of those that stay with a person forever—unclouded by time, clear, real, never changing. She still believes, even after all these years, that there was a mystical connection between them, unspoken yet deeply understood.

Reason tells her it was just young love — that first love, sweet and innocent but not meant to be anything more.

But no. If that’s all it was, then why, even after all that happened, does she still long for him or that kind of connection again? The questions that reverberate in her head are always the same every time his image — their image together — surfaces from the depths simply from a song, a scent, a place. Why did they so easily give up on each other?

Her chest tightened as the road unfurled ahead. She turns the music off, knuckles whitening as she grips the steering wheel, allowing the grief to wash over her, unresisted.

Forty-nine years. No — 49 years, one month and two days. Could it really be that long? She’d lived a whole life since then.

Like whispers she can’t quite make out, memories begin to swirl. Some blazed sharp and vivid — the dance, the first and only time they had sex in the back of his pickup truck at Aunt Christina’s cottage, singing around the campfire at the farm. Others — conversations, timelines — blur into fragments, condensed to mere sentences. She knows that’s the nature of memory, but the truth remains: her memories from what happened back then, accurate or not, carved patterns into her life, guiding her to choose men who never stayed, never fought for her, never did what was right.

The last one, Josh, was all three. A fucking waste of two years. Before him, Marcus. Before Marcus, Peter. A parade of almosts who left when things required effort.

The patterns, so goddamn clear now. She’d long given up searching for what she had with Dan — her soulmate Aunt Christina called him. Instead, she settled for any man who looked twice, because she was lonely and desperate and pathetic. 

Maybe healing this old wound could break the cycle.

She needs Susie’s advice. Her friend picks up on the second ring.

“Have you been crying?” she asks before Tina even speaks. “I can hear it in your hello. Is it about Aunt Christina? I know you were close.”

“No.” Tina watches a hawk circle overhead. “It’s Dan.”

Silence. Then Susie’s knowing sigh. “You know what? I’m not surprised. I was looking at your chart this morning — Venus retrograde. Perfect timing for Karmic release.”

“Really?”

“Look, I’ve known you for 45 years, darlin’. Whenever shit happens, you go, you figure out what to do, then do it. This is no different. So do it.”

Easy to say, but how? How do I let go?

wo more hours to Regina. She turns into a roadside café, her coffee cooling as she gazes out the window into the distance. Maybe healing the first heartbreak is the only way forward.

Her fingers tremble as she searches for Dan’s profile on Facebook. She’s done it before. The last post was from two years ago. Relationship status still shows widower. The only posts are photos of his metal sculptures — a silent collection, no words, no glimpse of the man behind the art. He’s obviously private. Probably won’t even respond.

Her heart pounds. Before her nerve slips, she types into messenger:

I don’t expect you ever thought you’d hear from me. But for some reason — old age, who knows — you’ve been on my mind. I guess I’ve always felt we never had proper closure. I’d like to remedy that. Just meet and talk. If you’re up for it, write back. My Aunt Christina passed away, so I’ll be in your neck of the woods for a couple of weeks.

Waiting for an eternity while memories surface: the nurse’s voice as she woke in the recovery room, You’re so brave. The heart-shaped locket her friends gave her, waiting for a tiny picture to be inserted next to a smiling one of her — a necklace she never wore. The whispered phone call: “My parents won’t let me hang around with you anymore.” Her eldest sister Francine’s firm voice: “I’ve told Mom, you’re coming to live with me — it’s all taken care of.” And her mother’s hushed instructions over the kitchen table: “Pack your bags. You’re leaving tomorrow. And no calling that boy.”

Her phone dings.

You’re right — I didn’t expect to hear from you. But I’m glad you reached out. Name a time and place, I’ll be there. And sorry about your aunt, she was a real gem.

Her breath catches.

What the hell is she doing? She drops the phone onto the table.

For years, she had imagined this moment — rewriting the story, reclaiming the ending. But what if he didn’t see it that way? What if he hated her for what she did? Or worse — what if it had meant nothing to him at all? What if this meeting just tore everything open again?

She’d built an idea of him — held onto it for decades. A memory polished by time. But what if the real man didn’t measure up? What if he was just another selfish asshole, like the rest?

She glanced at her reflection in the café window, touching her lined face, her tired eyes, her lips — faded at the edges, like everything else. Her heart pounded harder.

A woman touches her shoulder, startling her.

“Everything OK, hon?”

She forces a smile. “Just nerves, I guess.”

The woman gives her a knowing look. “Sometimes nerves mean you’re about to do something brave.”

Brave. There’s that word again.

“Thanks. I’ll be OK.”

She types a response: You pick the restaurant; I have no clue what Regina has anymore. Somewhere quiet though. Tomorrow at 5:00 PM?

She closed the hotel curtains, as if shutting out the world might quiet the gnawing in her gut. The air conditioner clicks on — a low hum that feels deafening in the silence.

She stares at the room service menu. Orders grilled salmon and salad. Cancels it two minutes later.

Her chest feels tight, her skin too warm. She needs to move.

The Keg is two blocks away. The sidewalk is dusty, and the air has that autumn smell even though it’s only mid-August. The sun is setting, and the orange prairie sky she’d forgotten was so incredible glows like fire. An omen, maybe. Everything will be fine when they meet tomorrow.

She orders steak and expensive red wine.

Images swirl in her head as she gazes out the window. He’ll see her, take one look, and what? Sweep her into his arms like they’re kids again? Apologize? Cry? Tell her he never stopped thinking about her?

The absurdity of it makes her stomach churn.

He had all these years and not a letter. Not a call. Not even a Facebook message. Nothing. If he cared so much, why didn’t he try? Why was it her carrying the weight of what happened?

Would she dare ask him that?

Over steak she barely touches, she texts Susie:

Freaking out about meeting Dan.

What do you want from this?

Truth. What really happened back then.

Is that all?

The wine makes her honest. Maybe a chance to reconnect.

Let go of expectations, honey. Let things evolve naturally.

Tina stares into her glass, watching burgundy catch the light. She has a doctorate, helped legalize medical assistance in dying, and is about to go on a year-long world tour. Yet here she sits, that same 16-year-old girl’s heartbreak lodged in her chest like a stone she never learned to swallow.

She changes clothes seven times, settling on her ivory linen dress. Successful but casual. Not too much cleavage. Hides the muffin top. The eyeliner was too dark; she should have bought brown, Susie told her. She should’ve stopped at a store.

Thank God for the eyelid lift a few years ago — at least she can use eyeliner and actually see it. God, the wrinkles under her eyes. The damn jowls.

She pulls her hair up, picks out the white strands that betray her vanity, twists front to back in front of the full-length mirror. It’s as good as it’s going to get.

He’ll be older too. But still . . .

***

If they’d passed on the street, she might not have recognized him. The slim eighteen-year-old has become solid, silver-haired, wearing his years in the lines around eyes that still crinkle when he smiles. Ponytail. Short beard. The quirky grin she’d memorized now belongs to a stranger.

He stands as she approaches — black T-shirt, jeans, leather loafers — and she steps forward for a hug that feels right but not familiar.

“What do you remember?” she asks once they’ve settled into the booth’s shadows.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for decades. “Not much. It’s all . . . foggy.”

They trade fragments — some matching, others foreign. The stories they’ve carried don’t align, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: sitting across from each other, finally talking.

“I felt paralyzed by shame,” she admits. “Like my life wasn’t my own anymore.”

“Same.” His voice roughens. “My brothers said I wasn’t to blame, that I should just leave for a while. My mom kept saying it was handled, to forget you and move on.”

“Our families built walls between us.” She cradles her wine glass. “We never got to choose anything.”

“We just. . . . let them take over.” He wipes his eyes. “I kept thinking maybe someone would show up at my door one day. The idea didn’t scare me. It just made me sad, knowing I’d missed whatever could have been.”

His words hit like a physical blow, the weight of 49 years crashing down, leaving emptiness between them.

“What?” she whispers. “You never knew what happened?”

He shakes his head. “Your cousin told me you fell out of a tree. That you lost the baby. But I knew he was lying.”

Her hand flies to her throat. “Fell out of a tree? Oh my God.”

She locks eyes with him, her words slow, deliberate. “I am so sorry.” A simple sentence blanketing a lifetime of not knowing. She aches — for him, for them, for the young people they were who never got to choose.

He reaches across the table and takes her hands in his. “I’m sorry too. For what you went through alone.”

They both know what they’re thinking. Could they have made it work? She had seen others, no older than she was, who found ways to build lives together. Looking at him now—this gentle, sensitive man with kind eyes — she knows they would have been good together.

In the fading light of the parking lot, they stand close. She reaches for him; they embrace again, this time holding on longer. Pressing her lips close to his ear, she whispers, “I like to think there’s a little soul waiting for us on the other side. It helps.”

He pulls back, eyes glassy, and nods. No goodbye — just understanding. A shared sadness lingering in the cool evening air.

She sits in the parking lot afterward. The night is dark, but she feels light.

Seeing him wasn’t about letting go. The past can’t be changed. Closure is an illusion, and memories aren’t living things — they’re reflections, not reality. Maybe knowing that alone will bring some peace. A reset.

Later, as she’s parking at the hotel, his name lights up her phone:

It was really good to see you, Tina. Maybe we’ll meet again one day.

That would be nice.

She sets the phone aside and sits in the quiet darkness, listening to her heartbeat steady and sure.

***

C. Ingrid Deringer channels the celestial fire in her astrological chart into fiction, with her flash fiction and short stories appearing in several publications. Since 2016, she has been writing across genres, including children’s books and novels. A full-time author and member of The Writers’ Union of Canada and the Federation of BC Writers, she writes from her home in the stunning Okanagan Valley, where tends her garden, her imagination, and the stories that refuse to let her go.