Colors in a Setting Sky

08/15/2025 - 7:43pm

August 15th, 2025. That was the last day on our lease. Renewal, while our initial plan, had soon become a hopeful dream. We were young, freshly graduated and our futures pulled apart by the whims of big corporations and the burden of sustaining oneself. And, more presently, the 7:50 bus that would stop just down the road to take River and his few remaining things back to Houston.

I sit on the balcony - ours for a few more precious hours - and watch as the evening sun paints the sky alive with bold strokes of pinks and oranges. "It's gonna be weird," I say, "living without you. I'll have to readjust to being an introvert."

His laugh rings in my ears, boisterous and proud, just like him. My heart breaks a little knowing the melody I've become so familiar with will soon fade into generic notes, the memory growing blurry with disuse. "At least I won't have anyone pestering me about moving the dishes two inches to the right anymore."

"They were CROOKED!" He's not serious, but I let him get a rise out of me all the same. And, besides, they were crooked.

“Okay,” he rolls his eyes in a way that suggests anything but actual agreement, “but what about that time you made me rotate your mug because it was ‘the wrong way?’” His fingers curl around the words in imaginary air quotes.

“What about it?” He looks at me, warm brown eyes unimpressed. Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “The handle was pointing the wrong way.” I let the silence sit for a second before adding, “and obviously the world would’ve ended if we had left it like that.”

The words are intended as a joke, but as I say them I realize the ridiculousness of my own peculiarities. He told me they remind him of his sister, while I know the strict adherence to household order is an unconscious grasp for control in an otherwise tumultuous world.

Sometimes people move apart. Good things end too early and bad things sprout all around us like weeds. But, that’s the thing - these things aren’t good or bad by nature. They just are. Like most things are. Reality just is and the sooner we accept things the sooner we can move on with our lives. “I’m still waiting on the key to the city,” River says, reminding me that things aren’t always that simple. Reality takes many shapes and not all of them are ones we are familiar with, let alone the ones we want.

“In this day and age? They’ll probably email it.” I say instead, trying to ignore the elephant in the room - or balcony, I suppose. It’s a massive creature, though, and I can feel its presence in the pressure behind my eyes and the heaviness in my chest. Having exchanged our goodbyes yesterday, we had agreed to live in ignorance, a manufactured bliss, for our last day together. The task, despite its seeming simplicity in theory, was proving easier said than done.

“When have you ever known the city of Dallas to do things the efficient way? They would mail the hell outta that key.” His tempo slows toward the end of his sentence, almost pausing on hell before picking back up again. I’ve grown so used to his story-telling prowess that the slight modulations in tone and rhythm seem natural to me now. In fact, I’ve become so accustomed to hearing his dramatics that I’ve noticed them bleed into my own retellings bit by bit over the three years we’ve known each other. A lifetime, it feels like.

It strikes me then that people are like paints. Everyone is their own vivid, unique color to start with, rich with pigment and bright as the sun, but as the painting process continues, and more and more colors are introduced to the palette, some mixing is inevitable. The little pool of cerulean blue expands towards canary yellow, their edges mingling in a clash of contrasting venules until, trickle by trickle, something new is born. Maybe it loses a little purity, maybe its hue becomes duller, or maybe the two colors bring out each other’s faults instead of highlighting their respective brilliances.

But, maybe, with a little magic, it’s transformed into a whole new shade that has both the zest of the yellow and the calming presence of the blue. Maybe it’s a beautiful balance between two extremes. Maybe what you gained is worth what you lost.

Our conversation plays on in the background, but my attention is captured by the analogy. Shifting my gaze from the blending colors of the still setting sun over to where River sits on a dusty, faux leather chair that has seen many, many better days, his color is so obvious I can almost imagine an aura of it shining around him like a second skin. Lavender. Somehow, both the serenity of clean laundry and the wildness of a brewing storm. I wonder what shade he started as. I wonder how the other major shades in his life offered bits and bits of themselves to create the shade he is now. I wonder how I fit into that equation.

“What color do you think I am?” I ask with no explanation.

“Green.” River says without hesitation. “I mean, have you seen your room?” I laugh as the mental image rises to the surface - mossy green blanket, hunter green sheets, forest green desk and, of course, the pear-colored ceramic pear. He might be onto something there.

“Okay, but like a yellow-y green.”

“Oh, of course. Like a chartreuse.”

“Ew, don’t call me chartreuse.” I feel my face pull into a sneer as I say it. I can’t deny that the color is in line with my tastes, but, in a very Romeo and Juliet fashion, I’ve had a prejudice against the word for so long I can’t remember where it stems from.

“I did and I’ll do it again.” He says as he pulls out his phone. His fingers flick across the glass surface for a few seconds before he flips it around for me to see. “How about this? Cadmium green.”

When I see the color, my first thought is of my ceramic pear. My second thought is of the color grass turns on a sunny day. It’s warm and grounding. Sunny yet muted. My face stretches into a smile, “That’s much better.” It’s also the color of green apples and poison, of things both sour and wicked, and I find that the duplicity only serves to make it twice as interesting.

I tell him my theory, about personal colors and about how he’s lavender and about how we’re all paints mingling on a palette. He considers it for a while before saying “Wouldn’t everyone end up the same muted brown shade in the end?”

“That’s one way to look at it.” In that moment, I look back to the sky and am hit again with all the dazzling colors dancing across the blue expanse above us. “Or maybe you get that,” I say, gesturing toward the scene with my right hand. His gaze follows my motion and I see his features soften with awe as he takes in the view.

His full eyebrows knit together, contemplative. “Okay, so if you’re chartreuse and I’m lavender, wha–,”

“Cadmium green,” I interject.

He huffs at my correction but starts again, “Okay if you’re cadmium green and I’m lavender, what do you get?”

“I don’t know, I’m not Picasso.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I, Picasso. I don’t know.” Silence settles over us then, light and comfortable like a linen sheet in the summertime. It’s peaceful out here. The breeze is gentle and cool on my face and I can hear the near constant whoosh of cars on the highway despite the late hour. The sound merges with the chill r&b emitting from the teal speaker resting on the wooden table between us. I could melt into this moment right here and be happy. Knowing that it’s the calm before the storm, I savor it with twice the vigor. The final minutes of the final hour of our final day together as roommates. Of friends in the same city. Of people in each other’s everyday orbit.

“I don’t know either,” he says, his voice low and his words deliberate, “but I would like to see it one day.”

“I’ll miss you,” I offer in a voice of equal sobriety, knowing what direction his thoughts had turned.

“I’d prefer it if you texted me instead.”

“I’ll text you,” I try again.

“I don’t hear enough conviction.”

“I’ll text you. I’ll call you. I’ll visit you in Houston, and we’ll go back to Galveston.”

“I’ll always answer.” I watch as River’s eyes catch on something in the distance. “What time is it?” He asks. There’s a certain reluctance, a drag to his words, that makes me think I won’t like the answer.

“Seven forty-ni–,” and before the words are out of my mouth, I make out the rectangular shape of the dark blue bus down the road. “I think that’s you.”

Before I know it, his arms are around me, enveloping me in his trademark warmth and the tears I’ve been holding back are running down my cheeks. We’ve both ran out of goodbyes and, with one final squeeze, he lets me go, our colors no longer entwined but forever changed.