Harlequin’s Carnival

The young woman rubbed her hands on the top of her thighs and looked at her Cartier wrist watch, the tenth time in the span of five minutes. Biting her lip, she smoothed the material on the front of her pastel blouse. She shifted in her seat again and glanced at the abstract painting on the wall in front of her while her knee bounced rapidly. The heel of her slingback shoe clicked softly on the linoleum floor.

She studied the busy receptionist whose sweet perfume hung heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. She coughed again, this time a little too loudly.

The receptionist stopped typing and looked up.

“Um… how much longer before I can see Dr. Stein, ma’am?”

The receptionist stared at the young woman over her reading glasses.

 “As I told you the last time you asked, the doctor is with another patient, young lady. Your appointment is for four o’clock.”

The older woman stared for a moment longer and then resumed her typing.

The young woman dropped her head, and her long, dark hair hung like a curtain around her face. She sighed and lifted her head, tossing her hair back in one swift movement. She gently touched the wide, pink scar that ran along the side of her cheek and winced.

Her wide, green eyes swept around the room, drawn again to the abstract painting on the wall. Tilting her head, she blinked. Her eyebrows knit with renewed interest of the painting, a jumble of squiggles, colors, and lines. She stood and crossed to the artwork. Bending closer as if trying to discern its meaning, the young woman raised her hand to touch a line of heavy, black paint that undulated across the middle of the painting. 

“Do NOT touch that, young lady!”

Startled, she withdrew her hand and returned to her chair, her cheek and neck flushed pink. The young woman smoothed the thin fabric on her thighs and pulled her matching suit jacket tighter around her body. Avoiding the sharp gaze of the receptionist, she picked up a worn People magazine from the side table. Thumbing through it, her leg bounced without meter. 

The soft click-clack of typing filled the air. Tossing the magazine, it slid across the table. She asked aloud, “Who cares about those people?”

The receptionist looked up, “Excuse me?”

“Nothing, I wasn’t talking to you, ma’am. Sorry.”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. A ringing phone interrupted her tacit reproach. The older woman answered the phone crisply and closed the small sliding window between them.

The young woman seemed grateful for the respite from the older woman’s disapproving glare. She leaned against the backrest of the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes. Alone with her thoughts now, the young woman’s cheeks flushed deeply and she swallowed several times. A lone tear trickled down her left cheek, following the line of the now-reddened scar. Her small hands gripped the armrests until her knuckles turned white.

A few moments passed, she opened her eyes, and surveyed the painting. Leaning in, her eyebrows pinched together. A question seemed to form in her mind. She cut her eyes to the busy receptionist, who was still on the phone, chatting busily with whomever was on the other end of the call. Abruptly, the young woman stood and stepped towards the image.

Once more, she put out her hand and forefinger, but this time she contacted the thick, raised line without rebuke. Not really black, it was a dark, reddish brown and smooth. In combination with the cacophony of other elements in the artwork, the line was vivid. She closed her eyes and a corner of her mouth lifted in a dreamy, half smile. The young woman then used her left hand to trace the tender scar on her cheek while her right hand continued to follow the painting’s bold line. She seemed to be comparing one to the other.

Dr. Stein opened the door to his office, but she didn’t move and her eyes remained shut.

He smiled, “Do you like it? It’s called the Harlequin’s Carnival, it’s quite old.”

A few seconds ticked by with only the sound of the receptionist’s voice behind the glass window.

“There is such beauty in the chaos, don’t you think?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head and nodded. The tempest within her now calmed.

He held out a manicured hand, “Are you ready, now?”

“Yes, I think so.”