There isn’t a shade of it in sight.
The air trickles and flutters with hues of yellow and green, sometimes even red, but never blue. Not anymore. Henry knows it, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. “Perhaps it is best this way,” he thinks to himself.
The whistle blows.
The warm aroma of English Breakfast fills the cold midnight air. And then Henry sees it: a small, opaque hint of blue climbing it’s way out of the mug. Henry watches in bewilderment as it swirls its way towards the ceiling. Entranced by his finding, Henry watches the color before it is quickly lost amongst the others.
All that is left is a colorless cloud of steam.
This reminds Henry of the time he used to smoke. The air within his apartment was blue then, and each cigarette would fill the place with clouds. Henry would write everything under this overcast blue sky. He would lay on his back with his mandolin in hand and watch the clouds take shape. Slowly but surely, he would taste the colors of the outside seep into his inside, and with that he would close his eyes and begin to play.
As these moments formed into ideas, and ideas formed into songs, Henry found his color. Once he found that, everything began to change: the days moved by quicker, the fridge filled up sooner, and the cash flowed in greater than ever. Every success strengthened the steadiness, and every check boosted Henry’s confidence. Shades of yellow and green and red and orange began to fill the air as Henry’s time and money allowed him to experiment with a new sense of life.
But the blue began to fade, and Henry began to lose it as soon as he found it.
Henry takes a sip of tea. Cold.
“Everything is perfect, yet nothing seems quite right” Henry thinks to himself.
Henry goes to the sink to pour out the tea. He rinses out the cup and places it on the empty counter.
He walks quietly to bed, only to stop and stare at the piano. It currently serves as the mantelpiece of the living room, and he can’t remember the last time he played it. He brushes his hand lightly across the top of the keys, revealing a thick layer of blueish-gray dust.
The bench creaks as he begins to pull it out from underneath the piano. He stops at the sound and decides to bend his knees forward and slide in. Now seated, Henry watches the ebony and ivory keys. His hands reach towards them and slowly fall into place: a familiar pattern. Henry softly presses his right foot against the sustain pedal.
Slowly but surely, Henry begins to taste the colors of the outside seeping into his inside, and with that he closes his eyes and presses down on the keys.
Henry quickly retracts his fingers and releases the pedal. The piano is out of tune.
Henry gets up and goes to his room. The colorless chord still lingers in the air, and Henry hopes he hasn’t woken anyone.
Out from the dark emerges Henry’s five-year-old daughter, her little hands rubbing her eyes. To Henry, she is a bundle of color. Henry scoops her off the ground and returns her to her bed.
“Can you get me a glass of ice water daddy?”
Henry retrieves it.
“Goodnight sweetheart.”
His love for her is reassured with a goodnight kiss.
Henry goes down the hall to his room. He slips into the right side of his bed next to his sleeping wife and pulls the purple covers over his body. With the back of his head slowly sinking into his pillow, Henry stares at the ceiling.
The chord still lingers in his head.
“Perhaps it is best this way,” he thinks to himself.
As Henry sleeps, a pale shade of blue escapes his breath.
