We were in the middle of slathering a deep periwinkle blue onto the walls of our bedroom when he stopped and turned toward me, paintbrush in hand, and told me that we needed to talk. Sunlight snuck in through gaps in the curtains creating shadows on the furniture and on half of his face.

He opened his mouth and started talking but I was lost in a memory. My old 8th grade science teacher, Mr. Vincent, was lecturing to us about how things aren’t always what they seem to be.

“Does anybody know the true color of the sun?” He asked the class.

We all shouted out various responses. Red, blue, white, yellow.

“Okay, well in a way all of you are right. The sun contains strong amounts of red, blue, yellow and green light. And because the light is so intense it saturates each of the eyes’ color receptors causing the brain to interpret the color as white."


Fresh paint trickled into dark blue drops onto the newspaper-covered floor as he continued to talk, talk, talk. His voice was traveling down a long tunnel from somewhere far away. His words echoed around and above me, words about some girl he’d gotten to know a few months ago, how he’d gone too far with her and how he and I had been drifting apart for a long time now anyway.

Fractured sunlight shadowed his face and it seemed like he was wearing a mask and I wanted to take it off. I went over to the curtains and ripped them apart allowing in a flood of sunlight. He faded into the background like an overexposed photo and I had to squint to see him.

He was in the middle of blaming me, having a one-sided argument, justifying bad behavior, making this all my fault. This other girl apparently had more ambition, a better job, dressed better, had nicer hair, cared more, did more, was more.

While over-explaining his case, he backed up into the ladder that was leaning against the wall where the roller pan, roller, bucket of brushes and can of paint sat on the bottom step. Everything was slipping. I saw them falling and reached out my hands but they spilled one by one, as if in slow motion, hitting the floor, bouncing up, pounding loudly on the black and white tiled floor, splattering blue paint everywhere.

I grabbed the old towels that protected the furniture and began to clean up the mess. Whenever something slips, I clutch and grab with all my might. I can’t just sit back and watch things falling or spilling or sliding away. But sooner or later everybody goes. Leaves fall off trees when it’s autumn, parents eventually die, the sun falls behind the earth at dusk making everything colder, cars drive away and get smaller and smaller until they, and the people in them, disappear into the distance.

It was unfair. How could he forget the good things about me so easily like they never existed. I was there for him for so many things, like when his mom died and when he lost his job. And what about the good times. Had he forgotten about the Del Taco runs at midnight and the weekend movie marathons, sleeping in on Sundays till noon then getting bagels. I wanted to remind him but a person can waste a lifetime trying to make someone really see her.

“It’s over isn’t it?” I said.

He turned his head and slipped away.

The stages of post-breakup:

First, Depression. For a short minute I’d watch something funny on TV or have a lighthearted conversation at work and I’d find myself laughing. Laughing. But then the thoughts pounded in my mind like a drum. Every song on the radio, every restaurant we’d eaten at, even subjects we’d talked about throbbed. Everything hurt, even my skin.

Next, Comparison. Next to every single woman on the planet, I come out behind. That’s what being cheated on feels like. Your lover compares you to another and decides that you should be the loser. What was so wrong with me that I couldn’t be loved, just once, just for being me.

Finally, Consolation. In the past I’d always been good at that part. I’d tell myself things like:
“He’ll see what he’s missing and want me back.”
“I’m too mature for him.”
“There’s somebody better out there for me.”
But those thoughts were just shadows that I couldn't hide behind anymore. Underneath those thoughts lie the cold, hard truth. Emptiness. Loneliness.

“What makes the sky blue, Mr. Vincent?”

“Well… when the white light of the sun enters the atmosphere, gas molecules absorb its color waves and because the blue light wavelength is shorter it radiates outward easier. Our color receptors in our eyes that interpret the shorter wavelength sends the signal to our brain which interprets the color as blue when we look up."


So what is it that remains after the sun travels west and falls off the earth, when dusk rises up and swallows the light, now that he’s gone and I stay alone?

What remains after all of the excuses and defenses, anguish and resistance is a blinding nothingness as bright as the white of the sun. My 8th grade teacher taught me that every color wave combined creates white and what I've learned over the years is that at the center of white, where everything turns to nothing, is peace.