Foiled
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He’s harmless, I tell myself, so I swallow my morning cocktail of Zoloft, Depakote, and Geodon and walk briskly to the bodega up the street for a banana. I sit on a bench for a minute and contemplate seagulls riding the wind. While there, I observe stubby chipmunks wrestling on the crotch of a white oak tree, or blueberry-spotted pigeons cutting through the New Haven skyline, or Elis of every stripe, color, and shape moving and grooving down Broadway, Elm, College, Chapel, and Grove. 
I head to Atticus Bookstore to study the ladies and gents, and flip through multiple novels, cards, and books while reminding myself don’t ever forget to breathe fully and deeply, Rufus. I whisper prayers to whomever can help, saying hold that breath and exhale. I try to exist in a state of stillness, of calm, even though Jeb tells me I, “got too much jolt for a big-boned man.” 
I log into my remote Big Dog Yoga at night and allow breath to expand my chest and fingers and shinbones. I remove my tongue from the top of my mouth and feel my body rise, and experience shoulder blades dripping down my back, and my eyes submerge. I open myself to pure positivity and Cerulean-blue skies and sunshine flows right through me and out into the world.
It’s the blue that brings Shea back. At midnight, I think of her, the one who bolted when I needed her the most. I opened a catalogue once in the Courage lobby, and spotted her with her red locks, yellow sundress, suede boots and cinnamon bracelets. She was a porcelain artist, a talented one with her mugs, vases, and bowls strewn around her like stacks of gold coins, from $850 to $5400. 
It sucked the wind from me - a kick to my sternum to realize she was thriving in Taos, and I was only treading water, if not sinking in New Haven. I’ve been mourning her ever since - how she evaporated from me, the school, the whole damn town.
To shake it off, I set my alarm for early, running three miles before finishing at the Yale Art Gallery, examining everything on each floor. I soak up Matisse, Kahlo, Picasso, Chagall, Cassatt, Rothko, Edward Hopper, and Frank Stella. And it’s invigorating. Excellent, I tell myself. Savor the priceless art, Rufus. Absorb it all. 
Or I go to Yale’s British Museum of Art and examine works on the other side of Chapel Street. I picture Herby’s man striding through halls, steeped in dark colors, scowling. I hear his nasal tone reverberating off the art with his all-time favorite Churchill line: “To improve is to change, so to be perfect is to have changed often.” 
I develop an appreciation of culture and art inside my beating, mostly joyful heart. My knowledge of the wider world expands my peripheral vision, the universe beyond my many phobias. Or I dream of dropping off the face of the earth, gravity releasing me and not even waving a fond farewell. 
I remember to breathe and return to who I am and let it all out on the exhale. Easy to say, harder to do, I know, so I breathe and repeat until I grow still. Around noon, I eat a sandwich with juice and volunteer at a soup kitchen. I scrub the grime away with vigor, scraping greasy pans with soap and sponges, and soak them in hot water. I do it all mindfully, while retaining my silver cowl.