Color Me Slowly

A man paints himself to finally be seen.

The concrete is wet as he steps over the threshold of the automated doors. People pass by in hurried, rehearsed motions, their shapes static and distorted at the edge of his attention. He stabs his shoes into the doormat, drying them off before deciding which direction to head in the store. The buzz of fluorescent lights and murmured conversations filter past him, distant and muted.

"Which aisle has the paints," he mumbles to himself. He feels a desperate need to avoid eye contact, so he keeps his head down while heading to the paint display. Once in front of it, the varying shades of color come right at him. He blinks a few times, finds his equilibrium, regains his purpose. What is his purpose, the thought occurs. "Just find the first color," he softly says to himself.

His eyes scan the rows. He makes the trip around the colors a few times and finally sees the first one. He reaches up and grabs the card. He stares at it, scans for a message or a sign. Nothing. Creamy Peach it is.

He turns around and sees the worker behind the counter. He hands him the card and asks for a sample can. While waiting for the paint to mix, he grabs a small brush next to the counter. He runs his fingers over the bristles—too stiff, uncomfortable—dropping it suddenly as if it were hot.

His thoughts are interrupted when the man behind the counter asks, "So, working on a home project?"

After a few seconds' pause, he replies, "More like a self project."

The worker awkwardly stares at his reply and nods his head. With the paint finally ready, he pays for it and heads out to get home.

At the bus stop, he sits on the unforgiving bench. He closes his eyes and feels the breeze cool against his cheek. His hand finds the can in the bag and tightens around it. Finally, the first color. Too eager to wait, he takes a quarter from his pocket, pries open the lid, and dips his finger into the silk of paint. He traces it along his wrist. Something stirs beneath his skin, then goes still.

He unwraps the brush from the plastic. He eases it into the paint, then eagerly glides it against his hand. The cool wetness startles him, but his body is now the canvas. He wants more.

He brushes it against his arm. One stroke up, one stroke down, and he feels a soft new brightness spilling into the gray, replacing him. Replacing what he has lost. An inner voice threads through him, saying that it will be okay. He wants every shade to replace him. He thinks of the second color, a soft sky blue settling on his chest. Or a third. Lavender dissolving his edges as he starts to blur—not yet disappearing, but becoming softer, unsure.

Less seen.
Less him.

And then the last color spills forward, folding over the final inch of him. He has lived unseen beneath life's relentless stare, but now others will see him—not as he is, but as he might have been. A wisp of an echo, brushed between memory and absence, made complete in his vanishing.