Breakfast After Ten
Breakfast After Ten
There was swimming light in the room. Yes, the light was swimming, he thought. Bright and clear and beautiful, swimming through the kitchen like some invisible muse and flowing through his soul to pull out the music. He felt he could see the colors of the notes floating in the air against the shining white walls and clean floor tiles.
He closed his eyelids, shading those shining green irises from the bright morning light, leaning closer to the black grand piano as he became lost in it. He couldn’t even tell what he was playing then. A Winston piece, he was sure. Which one, he didn’t know. It didn’t seem to matter, of course. All he knew was that this music was him now. He was the song. He was the melody in all its colors and shades throughout the room. The only color in this room of black and white.
He could smell the half eaten plate of food across the room, the scent of scrambled eggs and sausage permeating throughout the room with the colors and the light. He smelled the scent of that coffee as ghosts of fingers caressed his face softly. And the perfume that lingered in the bed he’s only recently retreated from. The bed with those linen bed sheets, white with delicate red roses embroidered in. He was sure they were done by hand, they were so perfect. Could a machine ever make something like that? Surely not. Beauty lies in nature. Beauty lies in things done in love. Like the linen bed sheets. Like the music flowing through the room. Like the breakfast on the table. Like the thoughts in the man’s head filled with deep brown eyes and ebony hair. It didn’t matter the bad now, did it? It was all beautiful in the end.
Tears stained the man’s cheeks, though when he’d cried this morning he couldn’t say. He wasn’t sad anymore, was he? Proud, maybe. Too proud to admit it may be his fault she’s gone. The woman with the deep brown eyes. It didn’t matter anymore either though. He wasn’t on her side anymore. He was on his own. All alone, perhaps. But he was finally his own now.
He came to a decision then, as he sat in that music-colored white kitchen. He didn’t need thoughts to come to it. Rather, it seemed the music had pulled it out of him, in a thin golden strand that mingled in with the colors and the liquid light. What more logical a thing to do than walk away from her?
It was perfect, said the notes of the piano. He could pick his head up from the slump he’d faced, walk away. She could have everything, he didn’t care. All that really belonged to him was the music anyway. The natural, bright, flowing colors he could see with his eyes closed. That’s all that was his. Except the memory. The memory would always be there too, wouldn’t it?
Later, he’s going to stand from the piano at last. Later, he’s going to wade through the light and close the shutters on the windows, those thousand windows she’d wanted to have when they’d first come here. He’ll close them and leave the room dry and colorless like it had so often been before she’d left. And he’ll never open those windows again. Because he’ll leave this place and never come back.
Months later, the windows will all be open again. And she’ll sit in this room with the swimming light, thinking about the lost color in it, thinking about the green eyes and auburn hair that had walked away. And maybe then, she’ll pick up the phone and try to speak to him. But he’s going to hang up. Because he’ll have found someone new by then. Because those deep brown eyes will be gone to him now. And he’ll lace up his wingtip shoes and go out for breakfast with his friends who stick to him closely, protecting him from further harm.
Yes, he’d learned now, hadn’t he? Learned something from all those break-ups and make-ups, the fuck-ups, the fake-ups. She didn’t know, of course. She never would. But he understood now. Love wasn’t about making it work. And Love wasn’t about this give and take. It wasn’t about sacrifice. Or heartbreak. Or even the words and feelings. Love was this music that he was playing now. Love was the sea of light and sound that enveloped him. Love was the breakfast at all times of day that made everything smell like home. Love was the embroidered linen roses in the bedroom. Love was the passion in the music. Love was simple and beautiful and natural.
This is what the man at the piano came to, the decision he made. After so long trying to avoid the problem, fighting and kicking all the way. Because really, it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the golden thoughts going through the room, the colorful melodies bouncing off the walls, the swimming light in the kitchen… and the comfort of having his Breakfast After Ten.
He closed his eyelids, shading those shining green irises from the bright morning light, leaning closer to the black grand piano as he became lost in it. He couldn’t even tell what he was playing then. A Winston piece, he was sure. Which one, he didn’t know. It didn’t seem to matter, of course. All he knew was that this music was him now. He was the song. He was the melody in all its colors and shades throughout the room. The only color in this room of black and white.
He could smell the half eaten plate of food across the room, the scent of scrambled eggs and sausage permeating throughout the room with the colors and the light. He smelled the scent of that coffee as ghosts of fingers caressed his face softly. And the perfume that lingered in the bed he’s only recently retreated from. The bed with those linen bed sheets, white with delicate red roses embroidered in. He was sure they were done by hand, they were so perfect. Could a machine ever make something like that? Surely not. Beauty lies in nature. Beauty lies in things done in love. Like the linen bed sheets. Like the music flowing through the room. Like the breakfast on the table. Like the thoughts in the man’s head filled with deep brown eyes and ebony hair. It didn’t matter the bad now, did it? It was all beautiful in the end.
Tears stained the man’s cheeks, though when he’d cried this morning he couldn’t say. He wasn’t sad anymore, was he? Proud, maybe. Too proud to admit it may be his fault she’s gone. The woman with the deep brown eyes. It didn’t matter anymore either though. He wasn’t on her side anymore. He was on his own. All alone, perhaps. But he was finally his own now.
He came to a decision then, as he sat in that music-colored white kitchen. He didn’t need thoughts to come to it. Rather, it seemed the music had pulled it out of him, in a thin golden strand that mingled in with the colors and the liquid light. What more logical a thing to do than walk away from her?
It was perfect, said the notes of the piano. He could pick his head up from the slump he’d faced, walk away. She could have everything, he didn’t care. All that really belonged to him was the music anyway. The natural, bright, flowing colors he could see with his eyes closed. That’s all that was his. Except the memory. The memory would always be there too, wouldn’t it?
Later, he’s going to stand from the piano at last. Later, he’s going to wade through the light and close the shutters on the windows, those thousand windows she’d wanted to have when they’d first come here. He’ll close them and leave the room dry and colorless like it had so often been before she’d left. And he’ll never open those windows again. Because he’ll leave this place and never come back.
Months later, the windows will all be open again. And she’ll sit in this room with the swimming light, thinking about the lost color in it, thinking about the green eyes and auburn hair that had walked away. And maybe then, she’ll pick up the phone and try to speak to him. But he’s going to hang up. Because he’ll have found someone new by then. Because those deep brown eyes will be gone to him now. And he’ll lace up his wingtip shoes and go out for breakfast with his friends who stick to him closely, protecting him from further harm.
Yes, he’d learned now, hadn’t he? Learned something from all those break-ups and make-ups, the fuck-ups, the fake-ups. She didn’t know, of course. She never would. But he understood now. Love wasn’t about making it work. And Love wasn’t about this give and take. It wasn’t about sacrifice. Or heartbreak. Or even the words and feelings. Love was this music that he was playing now. Love was the sea of light and sound that enveloped him. Love was the breakfast at all times of day that made everything smell like home. Love was the embroidered linen roses in the bedroom. Love was the passion in the music. Love was simple and beautiful and natural.
This is what the man at the piano came to, the decision he made. After so long trying to avoid the problem, fighting and kicking all the way. Because really, it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the golden thoughts going through the room, the colorful melodies bouncing off the walls, the swimming light in the kitchen… and the comfort of having his Breakfast After Ten.