But they need another word for what happens when you witness someone else's duende, when you fall in love not with the art itself but with the way someone else falls in love with it.
"The colors in this one are beautiful," she says, standing in front of a painting that is all different hues of blue and green.
A perfect blend of harmony.
She didn't even need to tell me why she loved this one.
I already knew, because blue was her favorite color.The thing about favorite colors is, they're not random.
They're confessions.
She'd once said blue reminded her of water, of freedom.I think what she meant was escape.The color of everything she wasn't but thought she could become if she just ran far enough.
Mine was green.
The color of her eyes.
She chose the color of movement, of never being pinned down.
Of possibilities that only exist in the distance.
I chose the color of something that was already there.
Already real.
Already mine, even if she didn't know it yet.
She was always looking toward horizons.
Blue sky, blue water, blue distance between her and whatever she was running from.
I was looking at what was right in front of me.
The green that didn't need to go anywhere to be perfect.
That didn't need to escape to be free.
Two people.
Two colors.
Two completely different ideas about what freedom means.
She thought it was about leaving.
I knew it was about staying.
It's my turn to break the silence before it breaks me.
"Truth or dare?"
"Truth."She turns to me when she says it.
"Why haven't you asked me yet?"I say, sliding my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
"Asked you about what?"
"Luiza."
