Colorblind Love

I stare longingly at one of your paintings. It was sold for five thousand dollars at last night’s charity auction. The buyer will send someone this afternoon to pick it up for them. He said it was the most brilliant use of orange and yellow they had seen used together in years. I don’t see it.

It’s titled Sunstreaked Day. I can’t see why.

I move onto your next painting.

This one is titled The Sky’s Ocean. It was sold for ten thousand to an eccentric millionaire. She’s going to frame it in her beach house. She loved the blending of the blue and white. She said you could feel the ocean’s embrace through the warmth, yet distance of the colors. I don’t see it.

I shift to the next painting.

And the next.

And the next.

I’m in your gallery. Filled with your masterpieces. Selling for five, ten, twenty, a hundred grand. The prices keep rising. The colors get more extravagant. More vivid. I don’t see it.

I stop at the hundred-grand masterpiece. You spent four weeks immersed in this painting. Here, I notice the brush strokes. The dried sweat. The self doubt. Then, the overwhelming confidence.

It’s a portrait. Of me. I was there for those four weeks. Out of the fifty-seven we’ve been dating.

A monotone piece. It’s painted exclusively in grey, black, and white. A painting for me. There’s a plat at the bottom. I’ve already ready it twenty-three times. Engraved the words on my heart.

To Kimberly, my beloved.

Who’s been with me since my pieces sold for pennies. Since she can’t see the colors I’ve painted, I wanted to create a piece just for her. I love you.

I may not see your paintings like you want me to, but what I can see the work, dedication, and time you put into them. I’m sorry I can’t see your colors. I’m sorry I can’t understand this huge part of your world. But I’ll still be at every auction for you.