Vivid colors, muted lines

Note to readers: This is an excerpt of a book I’m writing, it is fiction, but in all fiction there is always an element of truth. The color of our memory are the most vivid, the lines of reality blurred.

Vivid colors, muted lines.

So beautiful, so soft, she looked at me with longing, I touched her breast, my eyes looked a question. Seeing no rebuke I squeezed ever so softly, the flesh yielded sensually. My larcenous fingers slid down her side, slipping into the waist of her pants. Tugging gently but insistently I pulled her back into the dark room. finding her face in the dark I kissed her full on the mouth, my tongue slipping past her minty teeth, to caress hers. Her moans were all the invite I needed, I pushed her back onto the bed, sweeping aside the pile if coats, making room to lay astride, kissing and grinding full body. Over her moans and coos, I could hear the voices of our spouses down the hall in the living room with all the other guests. I hoped they were too busy to notice we had left.

Vivid colors, muted lines.

Both of us happily married, yet here we were, way outside the bounds of our vows. Slowly the import of what we were about to do solidified, the lines grew bolder, the colors less vivid, sadly more true to life. I looked at her and smiled, my hesitancy clear, she leaned in, setting her head against my chest and we hugged one last time before we separated and put our clothes in order. She left first, I waited until I heard her welcomed back into the group, then I snuck outside and sat in my car and waited for the colors to return.

It was cold and windy as february often can be. Tomorrow was his birthday, he was born on a cold winter night just like this one. He would have been 25. When he died, my only son, the colors washed out of my life. Gone were the blues, reds and yellows, left were the pinks, and browns and greys. When he died, he took with him my immortality and my color. You never really appreciate what you have until it is gone, he was a difficult child, his life full of strife and conflict. Now that he was gone, my life seemed to have no purpose. Alcohol, blurred the lines of reality and seemed to bring back the colors. It was my path to vivid colors and muted lines, making my life more bearable. However, It was this time of year, near his birthday that the standard remedy stopped working and I looked to illicit sex to fill in the colors, make the lines of harsh reality blur.

Vivid colors, muted lines.

Lost in remembrance of a time when I held him sleeping on my chest as a baby, when things were simple and still full of hope and promise, I was startled out of my thoughts as the passenger door opened and my wife got in as she angrily threw my coat into my face. “You could have at least come in and tried to pretend that everything was normal, I mean my god! When you and Alicia left, I knew what you were up to, and so did everyone else. When she came back in all smeared and smiling it made me die inside. I know that you are hurting, so am I! But we agreed that you would not make me look like a fool.” Out of steam and anger, she stopped suddenly and started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could manage. Still lost in the ghost of my son, the smell of his baby hair still in my memory, I missed him. The day just a few hours away, as the night moved to the birth of the morning. To me his birthday was bad, but to my wife, who gave birth to him it was especially cruel. Her baby, gone. Lost for words, we had said it all before anyway, I was just so tired, colors all grey and sad. Reaching into my coat I found the keys and started the car. As we drove away, I stole looks over at my wife, still beautiful at 50, she was the love of my life. I don’t know what I can do, I’m lost, drowning and I don’t want to take her down with me. She deserves better.

Vivid colors, muted lines.

The weather says rain, it was raining on the day he died. Tomorrow is monday, once again also the day of the week he died. Rainy Mondays, no matter what the date, are bad, but they are the worst on his birthday and death day. Early on in our grieving, a rainy monday would send my wife into a spiral of depression, and I would follow right behind, glass in hand. We were not good for each other, drowning in sorrow, unable to help each other. Every rainy Monday a disaster in the making. We were a rainy day wreck. Rainy days are grey days, grey days lead to a grey life.

As I headed to my lonely bed, the perfect marriage was only for show as we no longer shared a bed, I hoped for a dream of my son. I often had them, but rarely shared them with my wife, because I fear she resented my dreams. She never dreamed of him, it was only I, that was blessed with frequent dreams of our son. In my dreams my son aged as normal. My most recent dream, he was grown and in his mid twenties, a handsome man. In the beginning I shared every detail of them, but soon I realized that they were a cruel reminder to my wife of all that she had lost. So now I keep these nocturnal meetings to myself. I wished that he would visit my wife in her dreams tonight, that would be nice.

Vivid colors, muted lines.

She has lost so much, my wife, after our son died, she stopped writing, stopped singing and playing her guitar, she stopped going to church, stopped seeing many of her old friends. We talked about that early on, but it was a sore subject so I rarely brought it up anymore. Before, she was a vibrant folk singer and talented musician and had several books that she worked on between newspaper articles and her humor column, all of that gone now, cast aside.

Now she has buried herself into her exercise, starting a new career as a fitness instructor, As with everything she does; she is very good at it, but driven by the demons inside, she is relentless and in top shape. Women and men love her hardcore classes and want a body like she has, begging to know her secret. They are all saddened, when they learn the secret is hard work. No pills, no special exercises, only honest hard work. When she explains that she puts in 20 or more hours a week into working out, they usually just ask why? And to her credit she gives an honest answer. It is her only way to survive, to keep her sanity, it is her own anti-depressant. That type of work will kill you or it will get you that lean hard never quit body that never puts on a pound no matter what she eats or drinks.

Vivid colors, muted lines.

Me, I’m a dreamer, a philanderer, and a drunk. That’s how I deal with it.

As I wander the dark halls unable to dream, I can hear soft snores of my wife coming from her room. I often find myself wandering the dark halls, glass in hand waiting for the sleepiness to take me to my rest. Hopeful, ever hopeful, that I get a visit from my son. Looking at the clock I see that it is 1:22, the hour of his birth, he was actually born at 2:22 in eastern time zone, but I always subtract for central. Subconsciously, I must have been waiting for that very moment, Raising my glass, I say into the dark night, happy 25th, son, I miss you. See you tonight.

Stumbling through the dark, I find myself at the side of my bed, my eyes suddenly heavy. pulling back the covers, I slip into my big lonely bed and close my eyes. The darkness is instantly changed to vivid bright colors.


© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2014.

This entry was posted in Complete lies, Mr Perfect and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Vivid colors, muted lines

  1. Stephanie says:

    Heartbreaking. I hope you help these characters find their way through!

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