One of the reasons I embrace the summer air is the love it exudes at the time of its sunset. The drools of the orange flames caressing my splintered skin with its silk-like heat, but never burning me to death—like you do. I watch you dip your paintbrush, used and barely wet, in the palette of pastel colors and notice the rigid lines of your grip on the wooden stick. Perhaps you forget the sound of the chatters and gossips behind you in this cafe. Or the aroma of your cappuccino or my cinnamon bun. Or my existence, my god.
You design the A4-sized paper you locked within your right hand with blotches of rainbow-colored inks. Just undecipherable explosions of tones. When you’re done with the first phase, you plunge the brush in the cup of water and batter the dry paper with the wet bristles. The results are clashes of the light colors in a small pool of stained water.
But you do not stop from there. You hammer the paintbrush through the paper and it rips to the other side, letting the water rush from the hole and on your white jeans.
I am afraid to ask you for the reason, of the image and of the act, but you might have sensed it as you gaze at me. “Often you are the light colors, and you keep on letting yourself drown. I want to break through you, but unlike what I’ve done, you won’t allow me. If this continues, if you can’t try at least to talk to me, then consider the paper the edge of what we have now.”
And so I swallow the fear of you letting me go, the chaos of us falling apart, and the horror of waking up in the morning alone. But stuck in there, tough to drink, between the narrow road of my throat lies my pride.
WORD COUNT: 318
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.