Magenta

“I don’t know, Mark. It just doesn’t look right.”

Chelsea stared at her painting in suspicion. It was just off. She stepped back eyeing her work; the luminescent streetlights embraced her warmly. Reds, blues and yellows swirled into neon signs and glistening rain, held together by the lone dark figure holding an umbrella. It was a beautiful city view, just as her client had envisioned. Even the composition was perfect—vibrant yellow hues balanced the dark reds in harmony. But it just wasn’t right.

Hm.

She swirled her brush into murky paint water and watched as the blue transformed into a drizzle of turquoise before settling into brown depths.

“Mark?” Chelsea called.

“Hm? Oh yeah. What’s up?” came the muffled voice from the speaker of her phone.

“Did you hear what I said?”

She dried off the brush on her apron. A streak of blue cut across the white cloth. Shoot. Chelsea felt a pang of annoyance. She must have missed a spot while cleaning her brush.

“Um yeah… classes really are stressful these days.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“Anyways, back to what I was saying, the painting’s due in a week and I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.” She threw her hands up in exasperation at herself.

“It probably looks fine Chels.”

“I don’t know about that, baby,” Chelsea muttered, setting her brushes down on the counter. She needed a breather. She grabbed the phone off the counter, squeezing herself by the crevice of her fridge. Since her tiny one bedroom apartment only sported a single kitchen, she made do with cramming her old love seat there. Chelsea called it homely. Mark called it desperate. John called it comfortable. Outside, a taxi honked angrily at slow pedestrians. Sirens howled into the November night in a distance. The chill of fall air wrapped its breath around her arms and Chelsea felt goosebumps creeping up her neck. She slammed it shut. Immediately, the creaking of her old apartment and the familiar hum of the furnace melted the sounds of the busy streets. Chelsea closed her eyes. She wondered what he was doing. Where was he right now? She imagined his smile, crinkling eyes, always with mischief behind them. She missed him.

Crunch.

Chelsea stared at her phone, interrupted from her thoughts . Annoyance reared its ugly head again at her throat.

“Are you eating chips?”

Mark paused.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a part of your diet.”

“Chels it’s just a bag of-”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. We went to see a nutritionist for crying out loud. The least you could do is follow your prescription.”

“I’m really trying here.”

Chelsea sighed.

“Okay how about we limit your chip intake to one a week? Oh, and we can track it too. That way we know where we’re at with your diet.”

Mark was silent.

“And we can budget your diet so that way we know if it works.”

He paused. “I’m really trying here Chels.”

“Yeah, but we can do so much still!”

“Can you just tell me that I’m at least doing okay?” His voice was slow. She could hear rasp and fatigue carrying over. “I just need to hear that I’m doing alright. I don’t need this crap.” He spat the last word.

Discomfort grew in the pits of Chelsea’s stomach and she felt cold sweat on her palms. She hated confrontation. She needed to stifle the feeling. She needed to paint. Maybe it was because there was too much blue in her painting. She felt blue. Talking with Mark always felt like being gagged.

Mark sighed.

“Listen, you know this already. My parents…they never supported me in anything. I just need to hear, at least from you, that I’m doing something. I don’t need to hear your suggestions. I can do that on my own.”

Chelsea grabbed her brushes off the counter, squirting red onto her palette furiously mixing paint. White on red, red on yellow, red on blue. She just couldn’t talk to him. The paint was too dark, but maybe her shadows were missing.

“Baby, you know that’s not what I meant. I just wanted to help.”

Mark groaned in frustration, the phone amplifying the echoing static. “I know, but I’m telling you that’s not what I need.”

Chelsea sighed, “Okay, I’m sorry,” adding a streak of crimson to a streetlight. Still not right. The red was too purple and not vivid enough; it had to be brighter—more eye-catching.

“Anyways, how are things with you Chels?” T he voice over the phone asked.

“Its been okay.”

She paused, choosing her words carefully.

“I was commissioned to do a painting for city hall the other day.”

“Wow! That’s amazing. How much are you getting?” She could hear the false excitement in in his voice. Mark hated it when she earned more than him. Chelsea bit back her reply and tightened the grip on her brush. She added a streak of cyan to the skyline.

“You know…the usual rate.”

Mark was silent.

Chelsea felt herself tense.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was soft, the static cutting deep.

“Did I tell you how John came to visit the other day?”

Chelsea froze. Cyan dripped onto the floor.

“Yeah! He was talking about getting coffee. All three of us.”

Chelsea swallowed the lump in her throat. Gently, she dabbed the glossy obsidian on the corner of her palette and watched as a shadow loomed over the colours.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to keep her voice upbeat. “What else did you guys talk about?”

“Did you guys hang out last Saturday?”

There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

“It was just for coffee.”

“Well, John said you guys got real close.”

Fuck that guy.

She threw her brush into the bucket by her feet, discarding the colours on the worn out bristles to the murky depths of waste. The annoyance from before bubbled in her throat, threatening to cover her in red.

“Can’t you just trust me for once!” she said, hurling frustration at him, its sharp blades seeking flesh.

“I’m trying to, but you’re not giving me much of a reason!”

“You’re being ridiculous! It was just coffee!”

Well, it was a bit more.

Mark snorted angrily into the mic, “Yeah, I’m sure it was. Bedroom coffee.”

Chelsea saw crimson. The world pulled out from under her and she fell. Hard. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. What had John told him? The words she swallowed before all came out at once.

“You’re just a sensitive little prick.”

“At least I keep it in my pants,” Mark spat venomously. Chelsea slammed her canvas in frustration, blinking back tears from her eyes. Her fingers smudged the edges of the painting blurring them into tints of brown. Just great, she thought, her eyes swollen and blurry, now its ruined. Mark was having another one of his fits and her painting was due in a week. Not to mention, she’d have to deal with John later. She lightly slapped at her cheeks.

It felt like forever before Mark’s muffled voice came back on.

“Chels?”

“Yeah?”

Silence.

Chelsea cleared her throat. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? But… you have nothing to worry about.”

Mark heaved another sigh. “I’m…sorry too.” His voice sounded strangulated, muffled by the static of the phone. He was distant, as he always was— the phone, far away. Far away from her life, like an alien observer.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

Chelsea agreed.

“So…I think there’s just too much blue in this painting,” she said, leaning in. “Huh, you know what? The red’s looking all funky.”

“I’m thinking of getting a tattoo, and maybe going on a trip to Mexico this winter,” Mark interjected.

Chelsea paused, pressing her lips together and biting back a response. “It’s great…that you’re doing…that,” she finished.

She added a bit more blue to her mix.

“Anyways, I gotta go Chels. Pizza’s here.”

“Wait, what about-”

Click. Silence.

Chelsea raised a brow. In a swift motion, she pressed the power button, chucking the phone off the counter. Then, she closed her eyes, and listened to the stagnant hum of the furnace, a slight smile growing on her face. She stepped back and stared at the neon cityscape. Paint dripped on her floors, splattering blue, red and purple. It was a mess. She eyed the smudged; she would have to fix that later. But even then, there was still something there she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Even despite the chaos, something was just wrong. She stepped further back, pointing her brush at the canvas.

That’s when she was hit with a wave of realization.

All the mixes of red were wrong—too dark, too light, too blue, too purple. She glanced at her painting and back at her palette.

It finally dawned on her.

Her painting was missing the color magenta. The reds were too dull; the entire colour balance of her painting was off. The painting itself looked dead.

But, she couldn’t have possibly made that red, no matter how many hours and mixes she spent trying.

After all, magenta was a primary colour.