Maybe That Was the Point

Darrell was up making coffee. Nick waved and pointed back toward the bedroom to indicate that Jerry was still sleeping. Darrell nodded and poured them both a cup.

“Epic night, I'm glad you could make it.” He spoke in a whisper while handing the cup to Nick.

“No doubt. What was in those martinis anyway?”

Darrell smiled. “Secret recipe. Good stuff, right?”

Nick nodded. He hadn't noticed the paintings in the kitchen last night. They were abstract—swirly, with bright colors—and provided a strange sort of comfort despite being indecipherable.

He pointed at the wall. “These yours?”

“Yeah, it's a thing I do. Stuff inside me needs to come out. Painting's the only way I know how.”

There were three paintings in the room. One was green and yellow, one was red and orange, and one was blue and purple. All of them were hypnotic.

“Like music for me. I get kind of crazy if I don't pick up my bass for a few days.”

“I never thought of it like that, but I suppose so.”

Nick studied the paintings some more, but still couldn't quite grasp their meaning. Then again, maybe that was the point. “I dig 'em,” he said.

“Thanks, man.” Darrell's face lit up, and suddenly Nick understood. Those were the swirls of colors.

“Listen, I hate to ask, but Jerry's in a bit of a situation. You mind if he hangs here with you for a few days while I head up to Oregon?”

“Sure, Nick, no problem. I'm not going anywhere.”

“I promise to pick him up on the way back.”

Darrell chuckled, damn near spit coffee. Nick turned back toward the paintings. The colors all bled into each other, almost seemed alive. Like Darrell.