Blue

Short Story which follows the events which unfold after the narrator forms an unusual relationship with a regular customer at her/his art shop.

The clunk of the heavy wooden door. The faint ring of the bell which signalled her entrance. The soft scent of a salty breeze that sneaked its way in and mixed with her sweet perfume. It was a constant pattern. A pattern that occurred almost everyday and one that I found myself looking forward to.

Her fingers would always be blue, not just tinged by the sharp winds sent out by the sea but also from the dabs of paint that managed to escape their tubes. The same tubes that she would buy in abundance from this very shop. I never felt like questioning her. It was almost as though we had an unspoken agreement and it helped that we were comfortable in each others silence. Everyday, she would wander over to the paints section and select the same tube of primary blue acrylic. She prolonged the process by seemingly attempting to trial other shades of blue, but to no prevail. Indigo. Navy. Teal. She would scan every option but her hands would always clasp around that same primary colour.

After making her careful selection she would walk over to the counter and gently place the paint on the surface. She would follow this action with a distant smile and in one motion she hands me the money, scoops up the paint and sweeps out the door.

Despite such a fleeting interaction it was always one to brighten my day. The brief intermission of my daydreaming mind helped to shorten long shifts. I yearned to prolong our moments with a flutter of conversation and yet I could never quite muster the courage. I put it down to being an introvert and my built in fear of rejection. I didn't want to ruin the relationship we did have, that being immensely small, so I reluctantly followed the pattern of silence.

Many of my curiosities were already answered as after visiting the shop I noticed she immediately walked down to the shore. She would reach into her bag, settle herself on the sand, pull out a sketchbook and begin painting the sea. This is one thing I knew we had common. I had never really been the type to fall in love with places ... or people for that matter. Despite my passion for literature I was never one to romanticise and yet since securing a job in a little art shop by the coast, I couldn't help feeling enticed by the sea and it's rhythmic waves. I presumed she must share this same fascination, to me, it was the only explanation I could pin to her hobby.

It was extremely therapeutic watching her paint. There was the occasional customer that diverted my attention with question or query, but aside from that I was left to my own devices. I would watch her replicate the landscape in front of her. Starting from a small sketch that escalated to a beautiful painting. Even from a distance you could tell she was capable of perfectly capturing every tone and shade which presented itself. She lightened the scene with a large tin of white and added in shadows by mixing in black. Upon finishing she would pack up her materials, throw her paint tinged water into the sea, clamber up the rocks onto the pavement, get on her bike and cycle away.

It was only on one particular day that this pattern I had become so accustom to was broken. I had gone about my usual routine, having just opened the shop and noticed, as the time ticked away, she had yet to visit. Just as my worry began to sink in a familiar figure caught my eye. The sight of her, even to my own surprise, flooded me with relief and I was reminded of the same sense of happiness felt in her presence.

I noted that she had not arrived on her bike as usual, instead she hopped off a bus, sketchbook in hand and irritated expression on her face. My worry returned as I came to the realisation she was not headed towards the art shop. Her path led directly to the beachfront where she began setting her materials. I dismissed the thought that the irritation could possibly be directed at me, having never exchanged anything other than a smile, surely it was improbable that even I managed to wrangle myself into an unspoken argument?

Any kind of practical thought process was soon diminished by the immense burden of my building worry. Her usual careful brush strokes were replaced with harsh splatters of paint and her once peaceful aura had completely disappeared.

I watched her struggle for a long time. You could sense her exasperation even from inside the shop and I longed to stride out, to break whatever division was blocking us, but I couldn't. I didn't even know her name.

I hovered in that bubble of worry for a while. Almost reaching out but never quite far enough. It had passed the time of her usual departure long ago and I was just considering locking up the shop when the pile of blue tubes of paint that lay to her left caught my eye. She held one in her hand, trying and failing to squeeze the very last blob of colour out of it's container. She threw it down in frustration, her blue hands cradling her face as she stared blankly out at the sea.

And in that moment I surprised myself. For once I pushed past my anxiety, and without even really thinking I grabbed a sketchbook, selected the biggest tin of primary blue acrylic I could find and ran out the door.

It was only when I sat myself next to her that my lack of plan became evident. So, instead, I rested the tin of blue paint between us, set down my sketchbook and began to paint. I reverted to what we were used to. Silence. And that's how the following hours unfolded, we made no attempt at conversation, but we were comfortable without words. Her previous look of irritation was replaced with what I assumed was gratitude. The humming of the waves was occasionally broken with the clattering of our brushes against the metal tin or the sound of graphite gliding over paper.

I was just adding the finishing details when, without even a thought, I asked, "Why do you always paint the sea?" which I think caught us both off guard as there was a lengthy pause before she answered.

"It was the only way I could justify buying so much blue paint", a small smile played at her lips at the expense of my confusion.

We both continued painting until she spoke again "Only today I couldn't buy any paint as the money I always put aside had to suffice as my bus fare," a flicker of annoyance danced across her face but it quickly disappeared, "my bikes in repairs".

I replied with a nod and we quickly returned to our usual blanket of silence until I could no longer suppress my curiosity "But why do you want to buy so much blue paint?".

She seemed to be considering her answer, she played with the paintbrush between her fingers until she finally responded "Because it gave me an excuse to see you everyday".

And with those words I could feel my whole self beaming. We looked at each other and did something so nonchalant as smiling, the brisk sea air numbing our faces and hands but not quite reaching the warm glow settling within me.

The same comfortable silence fell over us again as we continued to draw. The waves relentlessly washed over the sand as we both fell into a similar pattern. Smile at sea. Paint. Smile at each other. Paint. Repeat.

Author's Note

narrator is purposefully not gendered or named to explore the idea that relationships can be formed without the focus or importance laying on the gender of the couple

Reviews

[Vic]

This was a beautiful story. The words flowed well and it was easy to read. I liked the ending.