Colors // Joshler

// 6. A Slightly Invasive Feeling //

The next morning, Tyler still hadn't finished unpacking. Instead, he was working on a painting.

It wasn't raining anymore, but the sky was patched with pale gray clouds. Tyler had his easel set up on the window seat, which was still unfurnished.

He was painting his shoes, from yesterday, standing on the dark pavement of the driveway. Somehow, it felt final; a last goodbye to the old house, the last time his feet would ever stand there.

Tyler had already been to church that morning--it hadn't taken his parents long to find a new one, apparently. It had been okay enough. He hadn't talked to anyone, but the pastor had welcomed Tyler's family to the congregation before starting the sermon.

So far, the day was yellow-orange, the color of honey, if honey was a solid color. The yellow was a sense of promise, the hope for a good day, but the orange was a slightly invasive feeling of stress.

Tyler was fond of describing feelings with colors. When he painted, he felt that the colors he added to the canvas also added emotion, and in doing so his brain had slowly learned to blur the lines between the colors he was painting and what he was feeling.

In the painting he was making now, for example--the red of his shoes signified anger, his distress, and frustration with leaving his home. The dark gray of the pavement was a dark, stormy feeling, a hollow yet painful ache.

A knock at Tyler's door interrupted his thoughts, making him drop his paintbrush. Quickly throwing a painting sheet over his work in progress, Tyler picked up the brush from the ground, mentally thanking his past self for remembering to lay down a tarp first. "Come in!"

Tyler's mother opened the door and looked in. "Hey, sweetie, just wanted to see how the unpacking is going."

Feeling a bit guilty, Tyler lowered his head. "I haven't unpacked everything yet."

Taking a step into the room, his mother frowned. "Are you painting?" Tyler's family had never quite understood his desperate need to create the perfect painting. His father had encouraged Tyler to give it up, even, and try to pursue something more...masculine.

"Yeah." Tyler swiftly glanced back to his incomplete painting, hidden beneath the sheet.

"No more until you've finished unpacking," she scolded. "I know you like painting, and that's fine, but you need to do your work first."

"Okay." Tyler's mother left the room, and with a faint sigh, Tyler turned to the remaining unpacked boxes.