The Color

By Susan Acevedo

“I can’t get the color right.” Jacob hurled the paintbrush, red streaking down the walls.

“You show in three weeks.” Lisa reminded him.

“The show’s not important. This is my art. It’s got to be perfect or else.” Jacob retorted.

“People pay five figures for your work. You paint dismembered bodies. You’re the modern Hieronymus Bosch. Of course the show’s important.”

This was the last event with him, Lisa promised herself.

Carly sidled next to Jacob. “Your highest sales yet. And that color red. So vibrant.” She glanced about the gallery. “Where’s Lisa?”

“It’s been an exhausting month. She was drained.”