Purple

She swished the door open and entered, impertinently, placing her beautiful butt on bed the with laundered muave sheets. There was a slight depression on the mattress as she settled in her place. Her face, pink, either because of joy or a lot of exercise. Erm. I tried not looking at her and started shuffling my papers. I wouldn't be the one to give in now. I knew what she had been upto. She must have completed one of those beautiful paintings she was working on simultaneously. I have always wondered how she manages to delve into different realms at the same time. One second she is layering the sea waves, green, blue and gray and the next she paints her sky flaming red and you are convinced it is possible. She creates the earth. It all comes out of the stroke of her brush. This one time, she told me she wants to add puple to the mountains. I laughed. She didn't say a word and I continued working on my story. The characters were charting their own destiny. I couldn' t have left them for an implausible, unrealistic colour combination. Sheila was yearning for a child and Dhruv wanted to walk out of the marriage unsure of, perhaps, everything. As I brooded over the sheer incomprehensible subjectivity of my characters, I heard her shriek. I rushed out of the room. To comfort her out of her fear. I found her, standing in front of the canvas. She turned, looked into my eyes and smiled. She came close to me. Her pink, plush lips pouted to caress my cheek and as she moved away I noticed the purple, green and brown together, majestically on the mountains. The sunlight angled in a way that an absence of purple would have made the vision incomplete. I had stood there noticing the playfulness as she curled her hair around her finger. Today, she had been complaining about her aching belly since morning. I tried to make her lie down a bit but as she put it, she was bursting with an idea. If she didn't put it on canvas, it will haunt her and make her restless. Why does she need me in her life anyway? I give a part of her to each of my characters. And her paintings are nothing about me. She lives through them. Perhaps she thinks I have encaged her and thus she has to paint to reach out and envision the world outside. Fine. She can walk out on me anytime. I would pretend as if I don't care. As she moves towards my table I am sure she will tell me how she cannot take presence in her life anymore. How suffocated she feels. How she could be a lot more, without me to hold her back. She smiles. Her eyes light up, quite literally. I have never seen anyone's eyes shine in real life. Sheila has inherited her eyes. She bends down and tells me that she feels better now. Finally she has taken a crap.