LXXXIV | Something Grey
❦
I’ve set up a new easel
by the window.
Sorted out a box of paints.
I make a new palette
(can’t find the other one).
Today,
I’ll paint Tammie’s
eyes right.
I start mixing
colours
into grey paint.
The empty canvas
is now full of
wrong grey eyes.
❦
What should I do?
I ask her.
I’m really sorry.
Tammie’s usual smile
doesn’t make sense to me.
She continues
tying knots
in my long hair.
I want her
to yell at me,
tell me how badly it hurt,
tell me I got what I deserve,
tell me it makes her feel better
to know
I suffered after that.
I want her
to blame me,
to scold me,
then tell me
what I can do
to make things
go back
to the way they were.
It’s all over.
We’re here now.
And that hurts
even more.
❦
Tammie bounces up
to where I sit
by the window.
She puts her head
between the canvas
and mine.
Her eyes gleam
and I take this opportunity
to examine them
close up.
Note the way the sun lights them up.
Note the type of grey hues.
Note the colours that swirl like stars.
Surely
there are colours here
that haven’t been
discovered yet.
Fifi, aren’t you going to apologise today too?
I don’t get
the joke.
She giggles.
Then leaves abruptly,
turning
almost as if
she’s angry
at me
for not getting it.
What is there to get?
I stare at her solemn retreat,
helpless.
The gap
between us
is worse than I thought—
all
because
I can’t
get the colour
of her eyes right.
It’s grey.
Definitely grey.
I mix black and white
more furiously
than necessary.
Adding,
adding,
until it becomes
her colour.
Will she like me then?
Truly
like me?
Can someone like me
even be liked?
The whole palette
is grey now
but the colour’s still wrong.
I throw my paintbrush
at the window,
giving up.
No matter what I add
it’s
not right.
I paint the rest of her face.
Maybe if I have
the rest of her,
it’ll become the right colour
after all.
I paint her portrait
like I always do.
I paint her whole body,
curled around her lover.
I paint her next to me
the way I wish we could be.
Nothing.
The canvas is full of Tammie now.
I start to notice
things I didn’t before.
Her bones stick out too much.
She has a different jawline.
Her breasts should be bigger than that.
I suck at painting.
I cry.
The grey acrylic stains
on the window—
Tammie’s wrong eyes—
watch me
with no feeling.
Today,
I’ll paint Tammie’s
eyes right.
What a joke!
What does “deeper grey”
look like
anyway?
The smell of vomit and stomach acid
engulfs me.
Tammie’s bony arms
wrap around
my shoulders,
her head resting
on top of mine.
Her voice,
her apologetic smile,
her warmth
comforts me.
Why are you nice to me now?
If you aren’t going to forgive me,
then go away.
I can’t find it.
The grey colour
of your eyes.
❦
