This is a wee story of mine from a few years back:
I freely admit that it was a blunder to describe that colour as dull. I realise that it was careless of me. I can see that it upset you Anna and I’m so sorry. It’s really a very nice green and it will look wonderful on you and it’s great that you’re knitting again now after…
What? No, I’m not starting, I was just trying to show you I care, damn it.
With a slam of the door you’re gone. I climb back inside myself. Time passes, it must have, because now you’re back in the room, the cello in your hands. You’re pulling out the endpin and fixing it, you’re sitting down, you’re arranging your skirt round the stool. It’s a skirt you used to wear when you performed, the skirt you were wearing that night. And it’s green, green like the sea. Suddenly I realise that it’s the same colour as that shawl you’re knitting…
Anna… I … I’m… I try to speak but something blocks my throat.
You pick up the bow and I don’t think I can bear it. I scrunch my eyes shut and as the sweet music swirls in the room I feel the old tingle down my spine. I open my eyes and you’re crying too.
We sit together, with the music, and when it’s done I’m going to walk over to you, Anna, and this time you won’t turn away. You’ll look me in the eye and, finally, we’ll talk.