#5 – Black

Peter glanced at the living room's wall clock – 1:40 PM. He thought hard for a moment, trying to remember what time Marco would be home from school, and couldn't quite grasp the answer to the question. All he could be sure of was it would be after three but before five. Something inside of him told him he should be ashamed of himself for not knowing, but he swallowed another swig of Old Times bourbon straight from the bottle anyway.

"Doesn't matter," he said out loud. "Kid's better off when I'm unconscious anyway." In the interest of making that happen before Marco got home, he took another, longer drink from the bottle. He coughed as the cheap alcohol burned his throat and tried to pay attention to the TV.

As always, though, his mind started to wander. It always did, but it was worse when he was drinking. And he was usually drinking. He randomly thought of Picasso, Eva's favorite painter. He remembered the time he'd bought her the expensive re-print in the nice, gilded frame, and he even smiled a little as he remembered what she'd said about it.

"Oh, Peter. Thank you."

"You like it? Really?"

"Well, of course I do!"

"You don't look like you like it…I thought Picasso was your favorite?"

"He is. I do. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"Well, this is one of his Blue Period works."

"So? The guy at the gallery told me his Blue Period stuff was the most popular."

"It is, although I never understood why. I look at it, and all I see is depression. He started painting like this because he was depressed, you know. His friend killed himself, and this is how he expressed his feelings about it."

"People love misery, I guess."

"Yes, they do. Most people."

"…so, you want me to take it back? You can pick out one you like better."

"No! It's a gift, and you know I never return gifts. It's like telling someone that my taste is better than theirs."

"Your taste is better than mine. If you haven't figured that out by now, then you need your eyes checked, sweetheart."

"Hang it. Put it in the hall, beside the Rockwell print. And thank you – it was incredibly sweet."

The smile faded from Peter's face as the memory faded. The Picasso he'd bought her had long since been thrown into the trash, the frame pawned to help with the rent.

He took another long swallow of bourbon, and a moment of clarity shrouded him. He saw how dingy and stained the living room carpet was, and he could suddenly smell the mold and the dirty dishes he'd conditioned himself to ignore. He saw the filthy slippers on his feet and the dirty robe wrapped around his skinny, pale body. Tears threatened to well up, but he forced them away with another drink.

"Just call it my Black Period," he said to the empty apartment, and turned his attention back to the TV.