inveniam viam

The Expressionist

The canvas she painted was in her head, behind her eyes. Each lover was a different color, and she smeared them across her palette; blues and greens, yellows and oranges.

“Literally,” she told the soft chinned freshman who left his twenty-sider on the nightstand. “You are robin egg blue.” He called it synesthesia but she shrugged, uninterested in labels. His kisses tasted of computer code and she painted her canvas with the color of her orgasm, soft strokes of blue.

Much later in the game, she realized the need of a spot of red for emphasis. And black for boundaries.