Crimson
streaks of acrylic paint rinsed down his sweaty palms, pooling at the base of
his gold wedding band until finally dripping to the base of the cool metal
sink. He rubbed the bottom of his chin, feeling the rough silver stubble as it
scratched his fingertips, trying to remember the last time he slept beside his
wife. He fumbled around the studio, stumbling over broken glass bottles of Stoli
and castoff canvases until he reached the beige filing cabinet. After a quick
kick to the bottom drawer, the top flew open revealing thousands of collected
magazine clippings, posters, and photographs each carefully alphabetically
catalogued in this drawer labeled “INSPIRATION.”
He thumbed through the pictures until he
reached “S,” there he pulled out a crinkled photograph of a toothy young boy. He
stared at his younger self, holding a Star
Wars lunchbox his father proudly standing next to him as he waited for the
bus to take him to his first day of school. The only time he could recall receiving
such praise from his father before the man left. He threw the photo to the
side; there was no point in reliving regret.
He lost himself years ago; he had that
type of personality. Whether it was obsessing over science fiction, his
paintings, or another bottle of vodka, he managed to, through his obsessions
push away the ones he loved, that was a fact he knew; and with each obsession
came impending failure. He continued to search through the drawer until he came
across another photo, this one more recent. His wife sat on the faded leather
seat of his motorcycle, a beat up old thing he bought from a Vietnam Vet when
he was seventeen. Her raven hair caught in the Arizona breeze, she smiled at
him, and in turn she became a new obsession for him. A sly smile spread across his face.
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