Fresh (Paint)

It is morning, too early to think, much less attempt to write, but oh, there are stars in your eyes and pancake batter sloshed on the counter. Your shoes are in the hall, tossed again, scuff marks on the fresh paint. Just days ago we were standing in Home Depot; time was there and not there as the hours passed, trying to find a color somewhere in-between dark red (guttural red, I-hate-the-world red, see-blood-through-your-eyeballs red) and rich gold (the stuff-of-dreams gold, King-of-Arabia gold, my great-grandmother's-last-ring gold). What is the middle and why do we think it exists? It's a matter of picking the right shade, you said. It's the way the sun splashes on the walls. Maybe in the afternoon, darling, but you, hand in your pocket, hair still wet from your shower, breathing deeply and craving something too human for my taste, remained by the reds; I, wanting only the best, forgetting everything that makes us tick, who we are, what we yearn for and smell, especially on those days when we step off the elevator on the fourth floor and everyone but us is cooking—that part of me wanted nothing but gold. Gold, gold, gold. Gold isn't a shade and doesn't need a shade or the parts of the sun that reflect off of the water or the building across the street to make it anything other than what it already is; standalone, isn't gold all we need?

And yet. It is morning and I am in bed waiting for these thoughts to pass, stretching for the sun, knowing you are in front of the stove adding too much milk to the batter, wiping the clumps off of your hands onto your grey sweatpants. You are thinking of, and wanting nothing but, red.