The canvas stared back at her blankly. She held the brush in one hand, it’s bristles gleaming in red paint.
She closed her eyes, trying to paint the picture in her mind, and saw golden liquid swirling, with little explosions of color here and there.
She opened her eyes; her hands were trembling and she clutched the brush tightly, before her frame began to quiver as well.
It took a great deal of effort to keep from flinging the brush and tearing the canvas.
Feeling resigned, she put the brush back in the mug which contained a multitude of other brushes, all dusty from lack of use.
She could not remember a time when her hands moved freely across the canvas, painting a projection of her mind’s image on it, flawless. These days, the ideas came to her like shooting stars; blazing, but disappearing into the horizon.
She headed to the refrigerator, hesitating only for a moment; he would never find out and this time, she promised herself, this time, she would remember.
Soon, she was on the sofa, lightheaded. And she saw… She saw a red-brick house standing on water, with little blue lights floating around it. The roof of the house was disintegrating into the blood sunset sky. The water reflected everything in black and white, except the blue lights.
In the next few days, the stench of alcohol grew stronger in the house, and the layer of dust on the canvas, thicker.
When he came, he knocked first, but when she didn’t open, he let himself in. The house was dark, a deep blue, and reeked of alcohol. The light falling through the windows lit the dust that rose from the floor. He noted the lack of dishes in the sink; she hadn’t eaten.
The house stank more of alcohol than before he had left; he wasn’t surprised.
He found her on the couch, curled into one corner, asleep. On the table, was a wine glass and two empty bottles of Pont du Blanc. The canvas behind the couch was blank.