Wearing Grey
By Jennifer McMahon
April 15, 2024
April 15, 2024
I’m trying to write a story about a dull character who has a dull life, a story in which nothing much happens. By the end, I want her life to be a fraction more interesting, to give the reader a sense of hope. Life isn’t futile, that’s the takeaway. We suffer, but it has value. Her name is Caprice. She looks like Joan, a woman I met at an AA meeting a couple of weeks ago, and whom I haven’t met since. She gave me her number, but I never called. Caprice might be Joan, or she might be me from a long time ago. A younger me, working in a job she hates, with a boyfriend called Jason who barely knows she exists. Still, she clings to him. She hopes that someday he’ll look up and perceive the person she truly is, but he never does. Sometimes, he cheats on her, because he’s driven by an impulse he doesn’t understand. It’s more than lust. It goes much deeper than that. The story is about Caprice, but I want it to be about him.
Caprice finishes work early on Wednesdays, and gets the bus home. The glass steams with her breath as she watches traffic draining along drenched streets. It could almost be a scene from Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts, the way the people drift through the mist of their lives, unaware of her mute suffering. She’d like them to stop, just once, and look her way, but they never do. Walking in the door at home, she feels the lazy hollowness of her day, the aching vacuum she occupies. Her breath catches, and the fingers of her left hand curl up like the boneless legs of a desiccated spider. It strikes her like that, sometimes, how the days yawn one to another, jaded and colourless. She tried changing her hair style once, the cut and the colour, but it was on the same head, and that head was still stuck in the same life, tumbling the same thoughts endlessly over each other. It seems to her that she’s caught in the tight jaws of a trap. Caprice hates Wednesdays, because they hold up a mirror to her, but she hates Sundays most of all, because they stretch into the threat of another cloned week.
Caprice finishes work early on Wednesdays, and gets the bus home. The glass steams with her breath as she watches traffic draining along drenched streets. It could almost be a scene from Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts, the way the people drift through the mist of their lives, unaware of her mute suffering. She’d like them to stop, just once, and look her way, but they never do. Walking in the door at home, she feels the lazy hollowness of her day, the aching vacuum she occupies. Her breath catches, and the fingers of her left hand curl up like the boneless legs of a desiccated spider. It strikes her like that, sometimes, how the days yawn one to another, jaded and colourless. She tried changing her hair style once, the cut and the colour, but it was on the same head, and that head was still stuck in the same life, tumbling the same thoughts endlessly over each other. It seems to her that she’s caught in the tight jaws of a trap. Caprice hates Wednesdays, because they hold up a mirror to her, but she hates Sundays most of all, because they stretch into the threat of another cloned week.
~
There was something about Joan that appealed to me, that made me want to take her home and turn her into words. To reconstruct her on the page, so I could tear her down again. To use her in some way, if only for her appearance. At the meeting, she spoke about hope. Her accent was Dublin. Her clothes were grey, a colour which suits some people and not others. When I wear it, it makes me look worn and washed-out, and adds years to my face. Joan could wear it, though. It gave her gravity, the way a grey beard can give a man the appearance of wisdom. She said she was a long time sober, over thirty years. What we call an old-timer, though she wasn’t much older than me. She spoke of hope, and her eyes sparkled with truth. I think she said something about the value of suffering, how it teaches us who we really are. She looked at me when she said it. I looked down at my hands in my lap, and pretended I didn’t hear her.
~
I want Caprice to have hope, the vain sort a woman has when she stands at the end of a pier, looking out onto a stormy sea, wishing for her lover’s return. All the other boats have come back, but not his. She knows he’s already lost, but she holds onto that hope, as if by the strength of it, she can raise his corpse from the depths and breathe life back into his cold, dead lips. I want Caprice to cling on to that hope, so she’ll have something to carry her into the kitchen to make something to eat. Jason is coming over later, or at least he’s supposed to. At the start of their vague relationship, she liked his unpredictable nature, because it made her feel like she was in a movie. She doesn’t like it now. Stability, that’s what she craves, but maybe it would be duller than what she already has.
I get her as far as the kitchen. It’s not a very interesting place, and I waste few words in describing it. I mention the light coming through the patio door, though. The sun is caught behind dark clouds, but they’re fired with gleaming edges. Fingers of light pierce them, like the hand of God is reaching down to the world. Making miracles. Changing physics. Altering boring reality. Caprice gazes at those fingers for a while, and wishes they’d grace her life with a little warmth.
I get her as far as the kitchen. It’s not a very interesting place, and I waste few words in describing it. I mention the light coming through the patio door, though. The sun is caught behind dark clouds, but they’re fired with gleaming edges. Fingers of light pierce them, like the hand of God is reaching down to the world. Making miracles. Changing physics. Altering boring reality. Caprice gazes at those fingers for a while, and wishes they’d grace her life with a little warmth.
~
I hated my job, just like Caprice hates hers, but she’s an office administrator, while I was a software engineer. On second thoughts, maybe they’re not all that different. I think my boss measured success by how much unpaid overtime we did, rather than by how happy our clients were, or how much money he made. He wanted the millstone to keep on grinding into the night, for the lights to burn long and late. Outside, the traffic bleated with the sounds of other people going home to live a few unbroken hours of family life. Maybe they were like me though, going home to an empty apartment to sit beside the phone, hoping it would ring. By the power of that hope, making him care. Sometimes, he did call. Mostly, he didn’t. Eventually, I stopped liking the things about him that I’d liked at the start. I swore I’d break up with him, but I didn’t have to. He just melted away.
After the meeting, Joan came up to me, and pressed a slip of paper into my hand. ‘That’s my number,’ she said, and she had the same look my mother used have when I’d grazed my knee or had inflicted some other minor injury on myself. It said that everything was going to be okay, because she was going to fix it.
‘Thanks,’ I said. I was already moving away from her, from the cosy comfort of her, from the pressure of having to accept the lifeline she’d thrown. Holding on is so hard. Sometimes, it’s easier to drown.
She patted my hand, then gave it a squeeze. ‘Give me a call. I’d like to see you smile.’
I knew it wasn’t an empty offer, that she really cared and wanted to help me, just as much as I want to help Caprice, just as much as I care about her. I’m embarrassed by my failure to pick up the phone, and to accept what she offered. Maybe Joan is sitting there now, waiting for my call, willing the phone to ring. Probably not. She doesn’t need me, not like Caprice needs Jason, though she doesn’t know what she needs him for, what question in her life he answers. Maybe it’s that having anyone is better than having no one. Maybe wearing grey is better than wearing no colour at all.
After the meeting, Joan came up to me, and pressed a slip of paper into my hand. ‘That’s my number,’ she said, and she had the same look my mother used have when I’d grazed my knee or had inflicted some other minor injury on myself. It said that everything was going to be okay, because she was going to fix it.
‘Thanks,’ I said. I was already moving away from her, from the cosy comfort of her, from the pressure of having to accept the lifeline she’d thrown. Holding on is so hard. Sometimes, it’s easier to drown.
She patted my hand, then gave it a squeeze. ‘Give me a call. I’d like to see you smile.’
I knew it wasn’t an empty offer, that she really cared and wanted to help me, just as much as I want to help Caprice, just as much as I care about her. I’m embarrassed by my failure to pick up the phone, and to accept what she offered. Maybe Joan is sitting there now, waiting for my call, willing the phone to ring. Probably not. She doesn’t need me, not like Caprice needs Jason, though she doesn’t know what she needs him for, what question in her life he answers. Maybe it’s that having anyone is better than having no one. Maybe wearing grey is better than wearing no colour at all.
~
Caprice makes a cup of coffee and sits on a kitchen stool, watches as the sun grinds westward, as its fading light draws out the first glint of distant stars. The sky turns to black, and the universe opens its arms to embrace the world. Still, she sits there. She’s hungry, but she won’t eat. It’s a punishment of sorts, for failing to be enough for herself or for anyone else. For the failure that comes from caring too much, and demanding too little. She knows she’s settled for less than her mother would’ve wanted for her daughter. Disappointment is hard to carry, she thinks, and change is hard to make. It’s easier to surrender, and go under.
I want Caprice to realise something at the end. That she’s not powerless. I want her to see that she really can make a change. Not just her hair, but her whole lifestyle. She keeps sitting on that stool beside the phone, because Jason was supposed to have been that change, the thing that would lift her up out of the water and carry her to safety. He’s the boat that came back, though he rarely does. The lifeline that was thrown, though it might be a snake. She invested everything in him, but now she knows she got it wrong, and that makes her want to punish herself even more for her lack of foresight. He showed her who he was at the start, has gone on showing her over and over, but she didn’t want to see it. All that matters is that when he’s there, he’s there, and when he’s not, he’s not. She’s not sure which is worse, being lonely without him, or being lonely in his presence. The first has at least the possibility of being eased, while the other occupies so much space inside of her, she can hardly breathe.
Her coffee has gone cold. She won’t make another cup. Jason hasn’t called. Maybe he never will again. Maybe she’ll never love again, or will love another Jason with a different name. As I look at her now, I realise I haven’t decided, and that I have no idea how her story ends, if indeed it ends at all. Stories go on past the last page, stretching into the future like Sundays stretch into a new week. Caprice will sit on the stool until she doesn’t anymore, and then she will do something else. Add to her suffering. Stay up all night, or go to an empty bed. Get up and go unnoticed through the next day and the one after that, carrying her body forward, wearing the thin shell of it around her, and knowing all the while that it isn’t protection enough. Someday, she’ll wake up and it’ll be Sunday. Not just any Sunday, but a special one. Jason will be asleep beside her. She’ll sit up and look at him, and realise that she sees things differently. She no longer needs him, she’ll decide, because she has found a way to answer the question for herself. That might be where her story really starts, but right now, it’s Wednesday, and her week is only half over.
I want Caprice to realise something at the end. That she’s not powerless. I want her to see that she really can make a change. Not just her hair, but her whole lifestyle. She keeps sitting on that stool beside the phone, because Jason was supposed to have been that change, the thing that would lift her up out of the water and carry her to safety. He’s the boat that came back, though he rarely does. The lifeline that was thrown, though it might be a snake. She invested everything in him, but now she knows she got it wrong, and that makes her want to punish herself even more for her lack of foresight. He showed her who he was at the start, has gone on showing her over and over, but she didn’t want to see it. All that matters is that when he’s there, he’s there, and when he’s not, he’s not. She’s not sure which is worse, being lonely without him, or being lonely in his presence. The first has at least the possibility of being eased, while the other occupies so much space inside of her, she can hardly breathe.
Her coffee has gone cold. She won’t make another cup. Jason hasn’t called. Maybe he never will again. Maybe she’ll never love again, or will love another Jason with a different name. As I look at her now, I realise I haven’t decided, and that I have no idea how her story ends, if indeed it ends at all. Stories go on past the last page, stretching into the future like Sundays stretch into a new week. Caprice will sit on the stool until she doesn’t anymore, and then she will do something else. Add to her suffering. Stay up all night, or go to an empty bed. Get up and go unnoticed through the next day and the one after that, carrying her body forward, wearing the thin shell of it around her, and knowing all the while that it isn’t protection enough. Someday, she’ll wake up and it’ll be Sunday. Not just any Sunday, but a special one. Jason will be asleep beside her. She’ll sit up and look at him, and realise that she sees things differently. She no longer needs him, she’ll decide, because she has found a way to answer the question for herself. That might be where her story really starts, but right now, it’s Wednesday, and her week is only half over.
~
I leave her there, then read the story through from the start. There are many things I want to change about it, but maybe it’s perfect as it is. My own Sunday is nearly over, and the week ahead will be the same as the week behind. In between the two, I sit on a stool in the kitchen and finish my coffee. I might stay up all night, or I might go to bed. I haven’t decided yet. Mondays might be better if you don’t let them sneak up on you while you’re asleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll find a happier ending for Caprice. After that, I have a hair appointment. I think I’ll try a new style, and a new colour. Something young and daring. Something that shouts out to the world that I’m willing to take a risk.
Like calling Joan.
Like wearing grey.
Like ending the story right there.
Tomorrow, I’ll find a happier ending for Caprice. After that, I have a hair appointment. I think I’ll try a new style, and a new colour. Something young and daring. Something that shouts out to the world that I’m willing to take a risk.
Like calling Joan.
Like wearing grey.
Like ending the story right there.
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Jennifer McMahon is an Irish author, and is represented by Brian Langan at Storyline Literary Agency. She is a winner of the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair, was the overall winner of the All-Ireland Scholarships Creative Writing Award in 2024, has been shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Short Story of the Year (2023), the Bridport Short Story Prize and many other notable awards, and has been nominated for Best Of The Net 2024. She was a second-place winner of the Oxford Prize (winter 2023), and her work appears in Heimat Review, Crannog, Irish Independent (New Irish Writing), Oxford Prize Anthology (2022 and 2023), Fractured Lit, Empyrean, Books Ireland Magazine, Loft Books (issues IV and V), the Retreat West Anthology (2023), and in many other places.
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Author's Note:
“Wearing Grey” is a story within a story, about an author who is writing a short story that cuts too close to the bone. Her character, Caprice, is stuck in a toxic relationship with an uncaring man, which resonates with the fictional author’s own relationship history. This author is clearly in trouble; she has been to an AA meeting, at which a well-meaning member gave the author a lifeline, her phone number. The author has yet to reach out for meaningful help and make the call, because she’s as stuck in her problem as Caprice is stuck in hers. The process of writing Caprice’s story, however, has a slightly cathartic effect on the author. By the end of the story, it seems she has learned through her art, and is willing to risk making a change.
For me as an author, writing is an exploratory process that reveals what’s in my heart. I discover who I am through my art, because I’m often unsure how I feel about things. Like life, most stories are driven by change, or at least the possibility of it. Like my fictional author, my art teaches me, and alters me in subtle ways. So you see, there are really three stories in “Wearing Grey;” one for the fictional author, one for Caprice, and lastly, my own story. Art informs me, and tells me who I am, because I’m often unsure who that is. As Alice says in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 10: “I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”
For me as an author, writing is an exploratory process that reveals what’s in my heart. I discover who I am through my art, because I’m often unsure how I feel about things. Like life, most stories are driven by change, or at least the possibility of it. Like my fictional author, my art teaches me, and alters me in subtle ways. So you see, there are really three stories in “Wearing Grey;” one for the fictional author, one for Caprice, and lastly, my own story. Art informs me, and tells me who I am, because I’m often unsure who that is. As Alice says in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 10: “I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”