Coda kept his eyes open for flowers. The ones he searched for were blue, delicate little blooms Palette loved. She would point them out for him as they walked together upon this pavement road.
“Look,” she would say with a smile. Coda always looked politely, and smiled as well, more for her sake than his. The taste of the word ‘look’ rested upon his tongue, not unlike that of graham crackers, and Coda entwined their fingers more tightly together. Hers were slender, flecked with paint, his calloused at the tips after years of dancing upon strings. “They’re beautiful.”
“Are they,” Coda would reply, studying the grass before them, and he would pretend that he didn’t see her guilt, pretend that he didn’t mind missing the things Palette found …show more content…
“No clouds- I’m pretty sure it’s a blue sky, and the autumn leaves look like something out of your paintings.”
Tastes skittered across his tongue, each appearing and disappearing before being replaced by another, and only the bitter taste of blue lingered in his mouth. Blue was never a good word; bitter in his thoughts and bitter on his tongue, and Coda swallowed the taste as he continued; “Your paintings are selling well, I expect we’ll see one or two in the galleries soon. Palette the painter,” he smiled, and shook his head, strawberries tainting his mouth, “Not a title to forget.”
There was a pause, as Coda collected his thoughts. Palette always had that effect on him, she alone helped him find his words and it was only to her that he confided his thoughts. She knew how he was, the bitterness, the alienation, the jealousy, and the fragility of this boy who longed for something he could never have. She knew him, and Coda thought he knew her too, this painter who had lost herself long ago and was still finding her way …show more content…
Coda was hurt- no, he felt betrayed. He had trusted her with all of his secrets, and yet she had never told him the greatest one of hers.
“I was so stupid, Palette. If you had told me sooner, we could have done so much more. We could have traveled, we could have spent more time together. God,” he laughed, humorlessly. “All those stupid arguments over colour and spending too much time working and not seeing one another- I thought you were seeing someone else. Palette, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
And there it was, the word sick. It tasted as bitter as blue, with a sour tinge that flooded his mouth accompanied by memories, of Palette not answering his calls or turning him away at her door on the basis of being tired. Coda exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Palette. We were imperfectly perfect, the colour-blind and the painter. We were supposed to travel the world and enjoy the arts, were supposed to have a lifetime, forever, Palette, not months. Why didn’t you tell me until it was too
“Look,” she would say with a smile. Coda always looked politely, and smiled as well, more for her sake than his. The taste of the word ‘look’ rested upon his tongue, not unlike that of graham crackers, and Coda entwined their fingers more tightly together. Hers were slender, flecked with paint, his calloused at the tips after years of dancing upon strings. “They’re beautiful.”
“Are they,” Coda would reply, studying the grass before them, and he would pretend that he didn’t see her guilt, pretend that he didn’t mind missing the things Palette found …show more content…
“No clouds- I’m pretty sure it’s a blue sky, and the autumn leaves look like something out of your paintings.”
Tastes skittered across his tongue, each appearing and disappearing before being replaced by another, and only the bitter taste of blue lingered in his mouth. Blue was never a good word; bitter in his thoughts and bitter on his tongue, and Coda swallowed the taste as he continued; “Your paintings are selling well, I expect we’ll see one or two in the galleries soon. Palette the painter,” he smiled, and shook his head, strawberries tainting his mouth, “Not a title to forget.”
There was a pause, as Coda collected his thoughts. Palette always had that effect on him, she alone helped him find his words and it was only to her that he confided his thoughts. She knew how he was, the bitterness, the alienation, the jealousy, and the fragility of this boy who longed for something he could never have. She knew him, and Coda thought he knew her too, this painter who had lost herself long ago and was still finding her way …show more content…
Coda was hurt- no, he felt betrayed. He had trusted her with all of his secrets, and yet she had never told him the greatest one of hers.
“I was so stupid, Palette. If you had told me sooner, we could have done so much more. We could have traveled, we could have spent more time together. God,” he laughed, humorlessly. “All those stupid arguments over colour and spending too much time working and not seeing one another- I thought you were seeing someone else. Palette, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
And there it was, the word sick. It tasted as bitter as blue, with a sour tinge that flooded his mouth accompanied by memories, of Palette not answering his calls or turning him away at her door on the basis of being tired. Coda exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Palette. We were imperfectly perfect, the colour-blind and the painter. We were supposed to travel the world and enjoy the arts, were supposed to have a lifetime, forever, Palette, not months. Why didn’t you tell me until it was too