Chapter 2
Shades of Blue
Roland slammedthe door closed and dropped the delivery box onto the floor beside him. He leaned back and bumped his head repeatedly against the wall.
Thump, thump, thump.
He’d ordered more paintbrushes because he’d snapped his other ones in half out of frustration, but having new brushes wouldn’t clear the fog from his brain. It had been months since he’d painted anything he liked. Nothing was worth a shit. He’d cancelled his last showing because he didn’t have any pieces to show, and he respected prospective gallery-goers enough to not recycle old art. He’d tried switching mediums, going back to charcoal or pencil, but nothing worked. Roland had come close to taking a knife to the blank canvases, ready to give up art altogether.
He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka from his freezer and kicked the box of brushes ahead of him toward his studio space. He opened the bottle and dropped the cap in the hall, kicking the door to his studio shut behind him as he entered. The bottle was almost half full, and he planned on finishing it off before the night was over.
Perhaps Roland was a bit masochistic to sit there and stare at blank white canvas all day and night, but he'd already tried to find inspiration and fallen short. He had been out in nature, trying to find ideas in flowers and sunshine. Nothing. He’d ventured out at night, immersing himself into the sights and sounds of a Saturday evening in the city. Nothing. He’d even pored over the undertones and meanings of his older works to pick out a feeling that moved him to generate something new. Nothing. Still nothing. Always nothing.
Roland took a swig from the bottle, setting it on a stool beside him before leaning down to tear open the tape on the box he’d just had delivered. He pulled a brush out of the thick plastic packaging and stuck the bristles into his mouth to soften them up with spit and residual vodka. He shifted the brush to the side of his mouth while he absentmindedly swirled shades of blue paint around on a plate instead of a palette, mixing them to a unique shade that could possibly match the delicate floral swirls on willow china.
He took another drink from the bottle, and when the brush was suitably moistened, he swiped it through a glob of porcelain blue and took a deep breath, raising the brush to canvas. With a fluid stroke across the canvas he left a blue smear, contrasting against the white. Roland took another drink and lengthened the line, bringing it down and letting the color fade into a whisper.
He opened his eyes and looked at the lines he’d painted. He thought about the way the blue faded to white then bled richly back into blue when he replenished the brush to resume the stroke. He tried to find something in the canvas to inspire him but it, unsurprisingly, was found wanting.
He took another drink and blinked heavily, dropping the brush and setting the bottle down so he could rub his face. Roland pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. A flash of blue from his memory sparked across the darkness and his eyes shot open. It looked like fireworks in front of his eyes until his vision returned, spotty and slow. He closed his eyes again and saw another shot of blue in his memory. He opened his eyes and the color was there in front of him, arced across the canvas. He swirled the brush back though the paint and stood in front of the canvas, brush raised and ready, but nothing came.
It hadn’t always been this way. Roland had been painting without interruption for years. For as long as he could remember, he’d always been doingsomekind of art. Whether it was made with pipe cleaners in kindergarten or tempera paint in elementary school, art had always come easy to him, much easier than dealing with people and considerably easier than life. He had always been focused on his art, singularly, which meant he had little time for friends or relationships. He’d tried once or twice to curate a relationship and failed miserably.
Roland met Stewart his freshman year of college, and they quickly fell into a routine that involved not much beyond drawing, eating, and fucking, with the occasional break to study economics. Stewart was an art major, whereas Roland had been attempting to pursue business. His passion had always been art, but his parents were right— with his talent, he didn’t need adegreein art; he needed a degree in something that would help himsellhis art.
It was well over a year into their relationship when Stewart started to get jealous. He would make digs about Roland’s talent here and there, though nothing Roland could call him out on, but enough that the barbs still stung. When Roland pointed it out, Stewart told him he was imagining things.
I love you, baby. I’d never try to bring you down.
When they realized he had no intention of giving up art, even while working toward a degree in business, Roland’s parents cut him off financially— and emotionally. They’d always been a practical couple. He hadn’t ever been sure if they’d married for love or money, but the shortage of affection in his childhood continued to resonate with him. Being free of his parents wasn’t a hardship, more of a burden lifted. There were no more obligatory phone calls with updates on grades, lies about his sexual preferences, or forced trips for holiday dinners. Roland was already working on saving enough money to purchase a small gallery space to prove he could do it, and he’d promised Stewart the first showing could be his. Roland would have done anything for Stewart. Rolanddideverything for Stewart…
He shook himself free of the memory, drinking another swallow of vodka while he stared at the canvas. Eight-hundred and sixty-four square inches of shit with a blue stripe cutting it on a diagonal slant. Roland was sure he was on to something with the blue but couldn’t make any actual sense of what he needed to do with it.
He dropped the brush onto the ground, stepped on it, and leaned down to pull it upward, snapping it in half.
He took another swig of vodka and found the bottle already nearly empty. Roland scooped the blue paint he’d mixed into a container and sealed it tightly before squirting more blue onto the plate— some navy, a little cobalt, a squirt of cornflower. He used the broken end of the paintbrush to mix it until it resembled as much of a color match to his original that he could manage. He scooped the new mix into a separate container and set them both aside.
Roland finished the bottle of vodka and slapped his palm against the canvas, knocking it, and the easel, to the ground. In frustration, he clawed his fingers down his face and then glared at his hands. Hands that fucking failed him and wouldn’t allow him to make art the way he used to. Hands that couldn’t do enough. He saw a smeared streak of blue on his palm and glanced back to the fallen canvas. Sure enough, he could see the pattern of his skin in the drying paint.
“Fuck,” he grumbled.
Roland went to the bathroom and braced himself against the edge of the vanity with his eyes closed, unwilling to look himself in the face and admit he’d really become a failure. Finally, though, he looked up. He was met with a reflection he didn’t recognize— blank, green eyes that looked like a patch of dry and dying leaves and a smear of familiar blue across his cheekbone, over his beard. Roland picked at it, small flakes dropping to the counter.
Feeling resigned, he sighed and turned the shower on, stripping out of his shirt and jeans. He stepped under the scalding hot spray, wetting his hair and enjoying the feel of the water as it rolled down his back. He turned and dropped his head against the wall of the shower and was met with another flash of blue. To his surprise, his cock twitched.
It had been a very long time since anything related to art inspired him to the point of arousal, but this color he’d made was haunting him. Roland reached down and wrapped his stained hand around his cock, teasing himself until he was fully hard. He closed his eyes and watched varying shades of blue and green dance across the backs of his eyelids while he stroked himself leisurely.
Every color he saw in his mind faded and morphed into blue.
Blue. Blue. Blue.
He quickened his pace, furiously chasing after a memory he couldn’t identify and an orgasm he hadn’t expected. His mind locked on the color and he came—a sharp and jarring release. His back arched, and he convulsed as cum shot from his cock and quickly washed down the drain.
Roland stroked himself until he softened, relishing the tug and stretch of his skin. When the touch became painful, he released himself, cock falling heavy and soft against his thigh. The paint on his palm was gone, flecks of it now stuck to his sated shaft. He squeezed a dollop of soap into his hand and washed his length, rinsing it clean before he raised his hands to his face to wipe the smear from his cheek.
He finished washing and stepped out of the shower, spinning his hair into a bun before he dried himself. Roland walked naked across his apartment to his bedroom and pulled on a pair of plaid sleep pants. He stumbled and caught himself against the post of his bed.
“That’s what happens when you drink all the vodka,” he said to no one because no one was there. Roland sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the carpet and at his toes as they flexed around the pile.
