A Flashing of Eyes
High Noon
The paint cans are heavy as we drag them up the basement stairs. We each grab onto a side of the thin metal handle, laughing as the weight shifts from one side to the other. A can falls down the stairs, viscous liquid slopping against the metallic sides. Each crash against the stairs is like an eternity. It finally thuds to the basement floor, leaving a trail of dents and scratches painted wood. Skye and I stare at each other in shocked silence. We stare at the scratched can at the base of the stairs. Her small brown hand is drawn to her mouth. Her eyes grow wide. Suddenly, she laughs, a loud, explosive laugh, spilling over the edges of invisible boundaries. I can’t help myself. I laugh too. Our eyes flash together.
It takes an hour to move all the cans to my bedroom. Skye covers the floor and all the furniture in newspaper, sealing off the perpetual whiteness with today’s headlines. She holds a roll of blue painters’ tape in her teeth. Her eyes are radiating mischief for miles around. I sit in the doorway reading the labels on the paint cans. Soft Pumpkin, Gold Rush, Somerville Red, Monticello Rose, Summer Meadow. I imagine the colors hidden beneath the lids, milky, thick, and vibrant. Skye finishes with the newspaper and begins chipping away at the lids of the cans. She opens Deep Wine. I want to squish the paint between my hands and watch the color seep into my nail beds. I work on Monticello Rose. The lid is persistent. It finally peels of with a resounding “clink.” The color is there, smooth on the surface. Skye stirs it up with her fingers.
Soon, all the cans lie open in the middle of my bedroom, as if someone preserved a rainbow in little metal jars. “You ready?” asks Skye. I nod, pulling the elastic out of my hair, shaking the short strands in my face. I can barely contain my smile.
I dip my brush into Clearwater Blue, raising the clump of paint and flicking my wrist, sending the color racing towards the white wall. It lands and splatters, so bright against the customary whiteness. Little strings of blue paint bleed down the wall, coming to rest on the baseboard. The paint shivers, delicate, catching the light. I rename the color in my mind: Skye’s Eyes. We use brushes stir sticks, our hands, anything we can get our hands on. The wall is a mass of colors with fancy names, all blending into each other. They are so different, so bright, liberated from their cans.
Skye flicks her brush a little far to the left. A large clump of Otter Fur hits me in the neck. I wheel around, Sierra Sunset quivering on my brush. I fling it in her direction. She laughs and ducks. It hits the wall. As she gloats, I nail her in the nose with a blob of Cape Cod Noon. She strikes back with Pacific Dusk. Soon paint is flying in all directions, hitting our bodies, our clothes, our hair, the walls, the newspapers. The words on the papers become illegible, coated with opaque color. We scream and duck, flinging brush load after brush load of paint. A wayward splatter of Jade Marvel makes contact with Skye’s guitar. I gasp. She laughs. Finally, no white remains in my room. We collapse on my newspaper carpet, our bodies stiff with quickly hardening paint. We are quiet, stray giggles rising up towards the ceiling. I study a blob of Monterey Mist on my wrist. Skye’s thin cheeks are stained with Dusty Lilac.
It takes an hour to move all the cans to my bedroom. Skye covers the floor and all the furniture in newspaper, sealing off the perpetual whiteness with today’s headlines. She holds a roll of blue painters’ tape in her teeth. Her eyes are radiating mischief for miles around. I sit in the doorway reading the labels on the paint cans. Soft Pumpkin, Gold Rush, Somerville Red, Monticello Rose, Summer Meadow. I imagine the colors hidden beneath the lids, milky, thick, and vibrant. Skye finishes with the newspaper and begins chipping away at the lids of the cans. She opens Deep Wine. I want to squish the paint between my hands and watch the color seep into my nail beds. I work on Monticello Rose. The lid is persistent. It finally peels of with a resounding “clink.” The color is there, smooth on the surface. Skye stirs it up with her fingers.
Soon, all the cans lie open in the middle of my bedroom, as if someone preserved a rainbow in little metal jars. “You ready?” asks Skye. I nod, pulling the elastic out of my hair, shaking the short strands in my face. I can barely contain my smile.
I dip my brush into Clearwater Blue, raising the clump of paint and flicking my wrist, sending the color racing towards the white wall. It lands and splatters, so bright against the customary whiteness. Little strings of blue paint bleed down the wall, coming to rest on the baseboard. The paint shivers, delicate, catching the light. I rename the color in my mind: Skye’s Eyes. We use brushes stir sticks, our hands, anything we can get our hands on. The wall is a mass of colors with fancy names, all blending into each other. They are so different, so bright, liberated from their cans.
Skye flicks her brush a little far to the left. A large clump of Otter Fur hits me in the neck. I wheel around, Sierra Sunset quivering on my brush. I fling it in her direction. She laughs and ducks. It hits the wall. As she gloats, I nail her in the nose with a blob of Cape Cod Noon. She strikes back with Pacific Dusk. Soon paint is flying in all directions, hitting our bodies, our clothes, our hair, the walls, the newspapers. The words on the papers become illegible, coated with opaque color. We scream and duck, flinging brush load after brush load of paint. A wayward splatter of Jade Marvel makes contact with Skye’s guitar. I gasp. She laughs. Finally, no white remains in my room. We collapse on my newspaper carpet, our bodies stiff with quickly hardening paint. We are quiet, stray giggles rising up towards the ceiling. I study a blob of Monterey Mist on my wrist. Skye’s thin cheeks are stained with Dusty Lilac.