If by Nina G. Jones Page A

subsequent celebrations. With an early wakeup on Monday, I decided to hang at home alone on Sunday evening, while Jordan had spent the night at Trevor’s.
    I used the downtime to do some cleaning. The one benefit of a studio apartment was that cleaning was a breeze. The easel stood exactly where Ash left it, and I smiled at the speckles of paint on the floor beneath it. I had a hunch it would be a while before I would see him again. As skillful as his creation was, he seemed more upset than happy that I had pushed him to paint. Since that day, I had been so busy, I didn’t have much of a chance to think about what he told me about his synesthesia. So finally, after I lit some candles to top off my newly freshened apartment, I sat with my laptop and did some research.
    Honestly, the phenomenon sounded so unbelievable I wanted to make sure it was really a thing.
    Well, it was a thing. And Ash’s version, the intensity with which he described it, and the various combinations, was extremely unique.
    I began to envy him a little. Most of us had our five senses, each limited to their respective lanes—eyes see reflections of light, ears hear sound waves, touch feels the physical world, the nose picks up scent.
    But Ash could taste touch, see sound, feel emotion on his fingertips. How amazing it must be to feel the world with such a diverse palette. In a way, he was like a superhero with special powers. But like most superheroes, he was troubled. Something burdened him, and I think that was why he was where he was.
    Ash intrigued me like no one else had before. I had Jordan, but Jordan had Trevor. And that was a great thing, but I was lonely. I wanted someone who I could peer into and discover. Ash seemed like that person. He seemed like he was storing a treasure chest of thoughts and creativity inside of him. I wanted to get past that quiet exterior and learn about this mysterious artist who wandered the streets.
    Oh, and he was attractive. Intrigue plus attraction usually equaled something I couldn’t consider with him. The reality was, he seemed to have no future, no place in society. I was poor now, but I had vision. Ash had lost his. Like Jordan said, the streets are fucked up, and more often than not, so are the people who live on them.
    As I was browsing the web for more articles on synesthesia, my phone rang and I was shocked to see my caller ID display: Ash.
    “Hello?”
    “Hi.”
    “What’s up?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant.
    “I’d like to try painting again if that’s okay with you.”
    “Of course,” I sat up in my seat. “When were you thinking?”
    “I’m in the neighborhood.” Which I believe was code for his usual spot.
    “Well, I’m just home hanging out.”
    “I’ll come over then.”
    He was at my door within minutes. When I let him in, I was shocked to see he had almost completely shaven this time, with just a light stubble fanning his face.
    “You look so young . . .” I said, as I let him in.
    “Did I look older before?”
    “Not considerably. It’s just that every time, you shave a little more, and it makes you look a little younger each time. You definitely look like someone who is barely into his twenties. The beard hid a lot.”
    “That’s the point,” he said, sliding his bag to the floor. “And I am well into twenty, plus one.”
    “What happened to the last painting?” I asked.
    “What does it matter? It was shit.”
    I sighed. He was determined that it was a piece of shit, and I couldn’t change his mind.
    His clothes smelled freshly laundered. It’s not that he ever stunk, in fact, I assumed he had access to some place to clean up and shave, but today he smelled of fresh detergent, a scent I had always found comforting. Finally, I had the balls to ask about it.
    “Where do you shave? Do you go to a shelter?”
    He looked back at me over his shoulder. He had already made his way over to the easel and was messing around with a tube of blue acrylic paint. “My