300 Days of Writing
Day 56 Painting:
She made her own paint. There was no other way to get the colors she wanted. The textures she needed to paint the people she loved.
She painted their bodies the way she saw them, in multicolored spheres, balls of light, and dark spots, small black holes at their eyes, their hearts, their groins.
Her first art display was at the local wine bar, L'unico. The portraits were hung on bare white walls. Metal painter’s wire strung around the room like a grim spider’s web. She hung the paintings up alone, wanting everyone to be surprised. She wanted to see the looks on their faces when she showed them themselves.
The queue started to build up around 7 pm, the December night in full swing. Their phones lit up their faces in blueish hues with heavy shadows. She paused to watch them, watch their colors shifting and pooling together. She waited until they were ready.
When she opened the door, the cold air danced at her ankles and she moved aside to let them in quickly. She waited for their praise, their gasps of astonishment, their exclamations of her talent, but they all ran out just as soon as they had seen the paint.
She watched them go, watched their black holes grow and consume them until the streets were empty of people and filled with night.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
H