Before The Autumn Fades

The Architecture of a Grumpy Guy

​“I had a system,” he muttered.

​He was looking down at his hands, which were now entirely covered in my favorite shade of heavy-body Sunburst Yellow slime. The words didn't just sound like a complaint; they sounded like a eulogy for a dear, departed friend. He said system the way some people say sanctuary or irreplaceable family heirloom.

​I couldn't help it. A laugh bubbled up from deep in my chest, loud, bright, and completely unbothered by the damp, oppressive chill of the Chicago morning. It echoed off the wet limestone of the church behind us, slicing through the low, monotonous hum of commuter traffic and actually forcing a few passing strangers to look up from their phones. I pushed myself up from the wet concrete, shaking out my legs. My knees were damp through the worn denim of my overalls, and I could feel a fresh scrape sting against my shin, but my skin always felt a little more alive when it was bruised.

​I stood over him for a second, taking in the full, glorious catastrophe of our collision. He was still sitting flat on his a*s, looking for all the world like a man who had just been dropped into a foreign country without a map. I extended a hand down toward him, my fingers flecked with dried cerulean and fresh yellow.

​“Systems are overrated,” I said, offering him my best, most reassuring smile. His eyes followed my hand up to my face, and for a second, I thought he might actually swat me away. “I’m Maya. I ruin Tuesdays. What's your name, grumpy guy?”

​He didn’t take my hand. Instead, he stared at my palm as if I were offering him a handful of live bees. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself up using his own elbows, bracing against the wet asphalt and rising to his feet with a stiff, rigid posture that practically screamed corporate ladder.

​Even covered in primary colors, he was tall. Really tall. And broad-shouldered beneath that structured, charcoal-gray wool coat that was currently weeping yellow tears onto his pristine leather boots. Up close, without the blur of falling petals between us, his face was all sharp lines and aristocratic angles—high cheekbones, a severe, aristocratic nose, and a jawline so defined it looked like it had been carved out of marble by someone who didn’t believe in curves. But it was his eyes that caught me. They were a piercing, stormy gray, entirely focused on the disaster at our feet, vibrating with a quiet, controlled fury.

​“Julian,” he said, his voice clipped, like he was delivering a statement to a court reporter. “And I don’t appreciate having my work, my clothing, or my day vandalized by someone who treats a public sidewalk like a personal roller rink.”

​“Vandalized? Oh, come on, Julian,” I said, rolling the name around in my mouth. Julian. It sounded heavy. Architectural. Like an old library or a marble pillar. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? It was an accident. The universe decided you were looking a little too monochrome today. Consider it a live-action art installation.”

​“The universe,” Julian repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a tone of pure, unadulterated skepticism. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his interior pocket—miraculously untainted by the yellow c*****e—and began frantically wiping at his palms. “The universe didn’t trip over a perfectly visible piece of civil infrastructure, Julian. You did. And in the process, you nearly destroyed a nineteenth-century French vanity mirror that took me three weeks to re-silver.”

​He stopped wiping his hands and immediately dropped to his knees again, though this time he was careful to avoid the worst of the paint puddles. His long, elegant fingers—gloved in thick, protective suede that was now ruined—tore at the wet packing tape I had forced him to drop. He peeled back a layer of heavy-duty bubble wrap, his movements frantic but surprisingly precise.

​I leaned over his shoulder, my wild blonde curls falling forward into his line of sight. He stiffened, pausing for a fraction of a second as if my proximity were a physical obstacle, before continuing his inspection.

​Beneath the plastic, the dark, rich grain of the mahogany gleamed under the gray sky. The glass was entirely intact, reflecting our twin faces back at us like a strange portrait: the grumpy king of order and the girl who just wanted to paint the world before the light ran out.

​“See?” I nudged his shoulder with my foot, a little too familiarly, perhaps, but I didn’t believe in walls. “Not a scratch. Your bubble wrap system worked perfectly. You should be thanking me for testing your structural defenses.”

​Julian closed his eyes for a long, agonizing three seconds, taking a slow, deep breath through his nose. When he opened them, he looked up at me from the ground, his expression a mix of profound exhaustion and deep annoyance. “I am not going to thank you for nearly fracturing a piece of history because you can't walk and carry flowers at the same time.”

​“They aren't just flowers,” I corrected, gesturing grandly to the tragic, scattered c*****e around us. “They’re Helianthus annuus. Sunflowers. Imported from a greenhouse in Michigan because the local ones have already started to drop their heads for the season. I needed them for a commission.” A sudden sharp pang of reality hit my chest, cold and heavy, but I shoved it down before it could reach my face. I didn’t have time for the heavy stuff today. I had to keep moving. “And speaking of my commission, look at them. They’re massacred. We’re both victims of the pothole, Julian. We should be forming an alliance, not a legal dispute.”

​Julian stood up again, holding the heavy mirror against his chest like a shield. He looked at the scattered petals, then down at his ruined coat, and finally back at me. The irritation in his eyes hadn't faded, but beneath it, a tiny flicker of sheer bewilderment had taken root. He clearly had no idea what to do with someone who didn’t immediately apologize, cry, or hand over an insurance card.

​“I don’t form alliances with human hurricanes,” he muttered. He began backing away toward a sleek, unmarked gray transport van idling at the curb, keeping the mirror held tightly against his front. “I have a delivery to make. Good luck with your... botanical tragedy.”

​“Wait! You can’t just walk away like that!” I called out, jogging a few steps after him. My oversized tote bag slapped against my hip, loose charcoal sticks rattling inside. “You’re still wearing half my palette on your face! If you let that acrylic dry in your hair, you’re going to have to cut it out, and honestly, you have great hair. It would be a crime against geometry.”

​He paused at the back doors of his van, his hand on the handle. He didn't look back at me, but I saw his shoulders drop slightly. “I have wet wipes in the glove box, Maya. I will manage.”

​“Wet wipes won't take out Sunburst Yellow once it bonds with wool, Julian!” I yelled, stepping closer, my voice carrying over the sound of a passing transit bus. “Look, I ruined your morning. Let me fix it. Or at least, let me buy you a terribly overpriced coffee to compensate for the emotional damages.”

​For a second, just one beautiful, fleeting second, I thought he was going to say yes. He gripped the door handle tighter, his head tilting just enough for me to see the sharp profile of his jaw, still smeared with that brilliant, ridiculous yellow streak. He looked at the sky, then at his watch, his internal calculator clearly running a massive series of risk-reward assessments.

​Then, the shutter clicked back into place. The walls went right back up, thick, gray, and completely impenetrable.

​“No, thank you,” he said, his voice flat, completely devoid of the heat from a moment ago. He opened the van doors, carefully slid the wrapped mirror into a custom-built padded slot in the back, and climbed into the driver’s seat without another word. The door slammed shut with a heavy, definitive thud that felt entirely symbolic.

​I stood on the wet sidewalk, the persistent drizzle starting to soak through my flannel shirt, watching the gray van pull away from the curb and merge seamlessly into the endless stream of identical, gray Chicago traffic.

​I looked down at the pavement. My sunflowers were ruined, their bright heads crushed into the asphalt by the tires of the departing van. My favorite palette knife was bent at a forty-five-degree angle, and a small pool of yellow paint was slowly being washed down the storm drain by the rain. It was an absolute mess. It was a complete disaster.

​I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold, metal edge of the medical bracelet I kept hidden beneath my sleeve, a quiet reminder of the clock ticking away in my blood. My hands were steady right now, but they wouldn't always be. Every day was a countdown, every Tuesday a luxury I couldn't afford to waste on being careful.

​A slow, wide smile crept back onto my face as I looked at the spot where Julian had been sitting.

​“Julian,” I whispered to the empty street, watching the last trace of Sunburst Yellow dissolve into the gray puddles. “You think you’re so safe in your little gray castle.”

​I picked up my bent palette knife, threw the ruined sunflowers into a nearby bin, and slung my heavy canvas bag back over my shoulder. He had a system, sure. But systems were built to be tested, and I had a feeling Julian’s pristine, predictable world was a lot more fragile than he thought.