A Red Door

She sat in a large room. It was a grey room, very dull, and without furniture, save for the one swivel computer chair and easel in the corner. There is where she painted. For hours. Days. Devoting herself with the strongest convictions to every brush stroke. And her efforts would more often than not produce amazing works. Even the most rustic things almost took on a new meaning in her paintings.1

Today, however, it was different. Today she sat in her corner, clad in an old shirt, chewing the end of her brush, staring off into the endless white oblivion that was her canvas. A wisp of auburn hair managed to escape the bun behind her head. She paid no heed to it, absorbed in her mind. Cautiously, she set her brush upon the canvas. The single line began to take shape. She worked tediously for several minutes, brows furrowed in concentration, green eyes fiery with poetic, abstract thought. 2

An echoing sound of footsteps did not throw her off. In the doorway of the drab room stood a man. Leaning in the threshold, he watched her through dark bangs. At last, after spying on her, he spoke.3

"Avigayle," his voice was smoky, very much like bourbon. "You've been sitting there all day. Take a break, please." The man did not receive a reply from the artist. Slowly, he made his way over to her, resting two hands on each of her shoulders. He smiled at her painting: a single red door, ajar, against a somewhat cloudy grey background. "The colors contrast nicely." he noted.4

"It's alright, I suppose." She spun around in her chair so that she could look at him properly. "I've done better."5

"I think it's wonderful." he said, squeezing her lightly. Only a deep, jaded sigh escaped her lips. Propping her elbow on one of the chair's arms, she rested her chin in her open hand. There was a paint smudge on her cheek.6

"...you have said that...and Wesley, it's so empty. You don't even...," she become frustrated, searching for the right words. " It's just repetition. There is no opinion."7

"Jesus," he swore, "what do you want me to say?"8

"Something honest! These niceties make your words so...murky and I cannot define your true intentions." Her voice cracked on the last word. For a moment Wesley did not speak. He was solemn, contemplating what to say. Rather innocently, his eyes made an apology.9

"I thought that's what you wanted to hear..."10

"I did, you're right, but is it really truly what you mean? You say one thing and then do another! Make up your damn mind." With that, Avigayle turned her chair sideways, and with it her vision. It was now directed out a curtainless window. The sky was overcast. And she was cold. And in her mind, he was hypocritical. Mechanically, she kicked open the nearby cooler, pulling out two bottles, one with vodka, one with orange juice. She mixed the drinks together, then proceeded to dig into the deepest pocket of her ratty, dark olive cargo pants. A pack of cigarettes was the product of this action. Taking a deep breath, Wesley raked his fingers through his hair. Shortly, he left. There was smoke in his eyes.11