Hues of Blue
A short, lyrical story about love and loss
Today, I remembered to put the milk out. And when you woke up, I made you your cereal. 20% muesli with cornflakes, I know.
Your indifferent eyes didn’t even look up at me while you shoved in spoonfuls. Your mind was obviously thinking about your painting. I never liked all that artsy crap.
You wear that apron and go back to finishing your painting. Begging attention, I kissed your neck before putting my tongue in your ear. You can’t resist now, no.
You grab my hips as your eyes search hungrily for my nipples. And then we fucked while the sad sun shined through the closed shutters. Wait, why do you paint in the dark?
As we lay on the floor, covered in hues of blue, you asked me if I wanted this painting. I smiled and said, of course.
Then you said, unnecessarily, “It’s for you.” Jeez. Talk about clichés. Then you held my head and stared into my eyes for 5 whole minutes.
Maybe that’s when I realized how deep eyes really were. Maybe that’s when you realized you don’t love me.
You finished your painting and left. I hung it on the bedroom wall, thinking about you crying in the taxi back home.
The floor is clean now. No paint.
Sometimes I lie in bed, staring at your painting, thinking that you are cursed. Because that’s a damn fine painting. The hues of blue are just a tad bit perfect.
While burning the painting, I don’t think about you. Remember to put out the milk, won’t you?