Yellow
By Damien Walters Grintalis
He painted the walls before he said goodbye.
The soft sweep of the brush on the wall. Up and down, up and down. Long, even strokes.
I will never forget that. He spent the entire weekend with paintbrush in hand. The sun streamed in the windows, turning the pale hair on his forearms to gold. I watched him, my heart so full of love I thought it would explode.
Two days later, he packed his things and said goodbye. We just weren’t good together anymore, he said. I told him he was just afraid, and everything would be okay.
I can still hear the soft sweep of the brush against the wall. I remember the color. Yellow--not bright, not sunshiny, but pale, like butter. Soothing.
The smell. That sharp, new paint smell.
He picked the color on purpose. I know it now. He wanted to take the sting away. His words were like a whip, cutting deep into the softest parts of me. All the yellow in the world couldn’t take it away.
He told me he was sorry. He said he still loved me. Liar. If he still loved me, he wouldn’t have tried to leave. He wouldn’t have said goodbye. He was my world from the moment we met. My Prince Charming. He made me perfect.
Brush up, brush down.
I know I made him happy. All the little things we did together. The movies, the picnics, the love. The lazy Sunday afternoons in bed, watching dust motes travel in the sunlight.
He promised me a happy ending. He promised me forever, but he took it back. He pretended it didn’t exist. It wasn’t fair. I told him that, and he kissed my forehead and said he was sorry again. Then he said goodbye.
Brush into color. Whisk of brush on wall. Up. Down.
I couldn’t let him leave.
Later, after I showed him how much I loved him (how much I needed him), he told me he was sorry we ever met. I kissed his forehead. He said so many sorrys, but sorry wasn’t enough. I deserved my happy ending; I deserved to be perfect again.
Brush up. Brush down.
Everything is perfect now. I’m surrounded by my perfect Prince Charming, and he won’t ever leave me again; he told me so. Not with words, but his eyes told me. I know he loves me. We’re perfect together.
The fresh paint drips from the brush, and smells sweet, like pennies--the scent of forever. I will never repaint the walls. I love the new color. All the yellow in the world can’t take it away.
Up. Down.
- - -
Bio: My short fiction is forthcoming in Bards & Sages Quarterly, Murky Depths, Crash, Liquid Imagination, Emerald Tales, Copper Wire, and The Stray Branch, and my poetry has appeared in many publications, including Rose & Thorn Journal, Every Day Poets, The Cynic Online, and Baltimore’s City Paper.
By Damien Walters Grintalis
He painted the walls before he said goodbye.
The soft sweep of the brush on the wall. Up and down, up and down. Long, even strokes.
I will never forget that. He spent the entire weekend with paintbrush in hand. The sun streamed in the windows, turning the pale hair on his forearms to gold. I watched him, my heart so full of love I thought it would explode.
Two days later, he packed his things and said goodbye. We just weren’t good together anymore, he said. I told him he was just afraid, and everything would be okay.
I can still hear the soft sweep of the brush against the wall. I remember the color. Yellow--not bright, not sunshiny, but pale, like butter. Soothing.
The smell. That sharp, new paint smell.
He picked the color on purpose. I know it now. He wanted to take the sting away. His words were like a whip, cutting deep into the softest parts of me. All the yellow in the world couldn’t take it away.
He told me he was sorry. He said he still loved me. Liar. If he still loved me, he wouldn’t have tried to leave. He wouldn’t have said goodbye. He was my world from the moment we met. My Prince Charming. He made me perfect.
Brush up, brush down.
I know I made him happy. All the little things we did together. The movies, the picnics, the love. The lazy Sunday afternoons in bed, watching dust motes travel in the sunlight.
He promised me a happy ending. He promised me forever, but he took it back. He pretended it didn’t exist. It wasn’t fair. I told him that, and he kissed my forehead and said he was sorry again. Then he said goodbye.
Brush into color. Whisk of brush on wall. Up. Down.
I couldn’t let him leave.
Later, after I showed him how much I loved him (how much I needed him), he told me he was sorry we ever met. I kissed his forehead. He said so many sorrys, but sorry wasn’t enough. I deserved my happy ending; I deserved to be perfect again.
Brush up. Brush down.
Everything is perfect now. I’m surrounded by my perfect Prince Charming, and he won’t ever leave me again; he told me so. Not with words, but his eyes told me. I know he loves me. We’re perfect together.
The fresh paint drips from the brush, and smells sweet, like pennies--the scent of forever. I will never repaint the walls. I love the new color. All the yellow in the world can’t take it away.
Up. Down.
- - -
Bio: My short fiction is forthcoming in Bards & Sages Quarterly, Murky Depths, Crash, Liquid Imagination, Emerald Tales, Copper Wire, and The Stray Branch, and my poetry has appeared in many publications, including Rose & Thorn Journal, Every Day Poets, The Cynic Online, and Baltimore’s City Paper.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
