Flash Fiction Friday: Beige
I have meant to “publish” some short fiction on my blog for quite some time, but I’m always too much of a chicken to do it. And to be honest, I’ve struggled to write anything last year (thanks, COVID, well I think I can blame you for my writer’s block…), but the other day I just started writing something, well, this story, to be precise, it came out of nowhere, and it’s probably not great, but I guess it’s a start.
Also, don’t crucify me for the bad formatting, turns out this ‘avid reader’ has no clue how to format a story properly!
I’m going to make this a semi-regular habit (posting short fiction), just to push myself to write fictional content because while it’s important to me, I find myself finding excuses not to write. Granted, my 9-5 job is writing, and I write film reviews and book reviews on here regularly too, but I think my true passion lies in stories, so I need to hone that skill and put in the work to become better at it.
Beige.
His apartment was sparse. Only the essentials and a few plants to liven the place up a bit. All the furniture was made out of wood, which he had handcrafted himself after taking a carpentry workshop one summer. The walls were beige, the linen was beige, and most of the clothes hanging in his wardrobe were beige. He told me that this was to purify his mind; if he occupied a world of colour, then he couldn’t paint.
I looked out of the window over the vast urban sprawl; identical high rises dominated the view. I wondered whether the people living in those buildings were like him, all locked up in their colourless worlds.
‘Hungry,’ he said; his tone sounded more like a statement than a question.
‘Um, yeah, I could eat,’ I said.
‘I’m not in the mood to cook,’ he huffed and raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ll order something.’
‘Ok,’ I said, tracing my fingers lightly over the goosebumps forming on my arms.
He picked up his phone and wandered off into another room. It was a strange habit, but he never spoke on the phone in front of other people. On our first date, he told me that his worst nightmare was to work at a call centre; he feared that more than death. I replied that there was a ring in hell specifically for the painfully shy, where the sinner would have to sit at a table in a packed auditorium answering call after call for eternity. He grimaced for a moment but soon returned to his soup. I’m still surprised he asked for a second date.
I unpacked the takeaway on the coffee table while he grabbed some beers from the fridge. We sat cross-legged on the floor with the modest banquet laid out between us. He opened both beers. I always took pleasure in the sound of a can being opened, that moment when the pressurized gas escapes. It was a sound of relief, like an exhalation or a gasp. It had been a while since I had felt that release of pressure myself. Even now, after months of dating, I was still sitting up tall, sucking in my stomach and minding my opinions of modern art. The restrictions I put on myself didn’t stop with him; they could be found throughout my life. Smile, don’t say anything when your boss tells you that your arse looks nice in that dress—that kind of thing.
After dinner, we sat on the small balcony, one by one, the windows of the other apartment buildings burst into light like little fireflies as the sky darkened. I leaned my head on his sturdy shoulder, and despite finding no comfort in this connection of our bodies, I kept my head there as I didn’t want to offend him. He wasn’t the warmest of people, in fact, his economy with words and lack of physical contact made him extremely cold, but I wanted his adoration anyway. I guess if I could win over a man like him, it must mean that I was somehow special. After a while and after my neck had gone completely numb, he spoke.
‘I want to paint you,’ He said.
Seizing the moment to move, I sat up and looked at him in what I hoped seemed like surprise. But the truth was that I had been expecting him to say this to me ever since I found out he was a painter. I had this fantasy of what it would like to be an artist’s muse, but a part of me knew that expectation and reality were highly unlikely to align.
‘Really,’ I smiled.
He nodded without shifting his gaze from the horizon.
‘When?’
‘This weekend if you're free,’ He said.
‘Okay,’ I said.
He applied paint to the canvas erratically, a gentle sweep in one direction and a thrusting jerk in the other; it was as if he was in a strange dalliance with the canvas. His palette was a muddle of colour, and an array of jars with varying volumes and shades of murky water surrounded him. Any attempt on my part to speak was quickly stifled by an abrupt shushing and a wave of his hand—my time as his muse could not end quick enough.
After hours passed this way, the final reveal was upon me. He stood back beaming.
‘You’re gonna love it,’ he said as he approached me and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead ‘close your eyes.’
He took my hands and pulled me to my feet. As he guided me over to the canvas, I felt like a toddler learning to walk for the first time; I stumbled a few times but thankfully didn’t meet the floor.
‘Open your eyes.’
The painting looked as if a Francis Bacon and a Jackson Pollock painting had merged. A hideous love child born out of witchcraft. Was that how he saw me? I felt sweaty, and a burn rose in my throat. But before I could control myself, three words escaped my mouth.
‘It’s…fucking hideous.’
He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t need to. He had expected me to fawn over him and tell him that he was a genius; that’s what the gaping mouth told me. A minute or two passed this way. I slowly shuffled out of the room and grabbed my bag, and left. I never saw him again. The joke was on me, though; he held an exhibition three months later, and that painting of me, which he dubbed Tactless, sold for a rather large sum and earned him a magazine front cover. I’m not really that bothered; I'd rather live in a world of colour.
The End
Please let me know your thoughts in the comments; constructive criticism is always welcome. 😊
