For Those Who Don't Believe in Love Songs

Chapter 10 Pt 2 - The Bedroom

James turned on the kitchen light to compensate for the setting sun then returned to the sink for the few remaining dishes. Martha put away a dried glass into its cupboard. The party was over, but a handful of guests remained – all helping with the mess. James' mother was not among them. Martha hadn't seen her since she left to do the dishes. James handed Martha the last plate and she dried it.

Out on the front yard, James said his final thank yous and goodbyes to his clean up crew and then it was just the two of them. The sky was a deep blue. Bugs swarmed the nearest street lamp and James and Martha headed back inside.

"So," he said. "What do you think of my house?"

"It's nice," she said, though 'blank' was the word that came to mind.

"Would you like to see my room?"

Martha felt the blush and acted fast to diffuse it. "Mr Quinn, you're trying to seduce me, aren't you?" she said with her best Dustin Hoffman.

"Hilarious," he said as he closed the front door behind them.

"No, you're supposed to say 'Would you like me to seduce you?'"

"Why would I say that?" he asked with a quizzical face.

"Because that's the next line."

"No, that line's in a separate scene." They took a right down the hallway.

"'That line's in a separate scene,'" she whined mockingly. "My name is James and I've seen 'The Graduate' fifty times, so I know-" They turned into his room.

It was moderately sized and rectangular. As with the rest of the house, the walls were white and the carpet silver. On the far wall was a black draped window overlooking the front yard. Underneath the window was his bed, made with a white comforter and pillows. Next to the bed was a white desk with a black computer and two phones. The room was truly achromatic but for the canvas of brilliant color hanging on the wall directly in front of them.

Martha approached the painting. It was a portrait of a man. It had a Pop Art color scheme of yellow, orange, pink, and red intermingled as if Impressionist. She leaned forward to study the brush strokes rising and falling like waves in a tempest. It was unsigned, but there was no need to ask. She stepped back and relaxed her focus. "Is that... David Byrne?"

"That was the idea."

"That's... random. Don't get me wrong. It's amazing, but... like, you're that much of a Talking Heads fan?"

"He's a friend. Sometimes. Probably not this time. I'll paint a pony next round, okay?"

"Har, har," she said and turned away from the painting to face him. "Holy... what is that?!"

She hadn't noticed the wall adjacent the door upon entering the room. There, James had forgone the canvas and painted a dizzying maze of black and gray directly onto the wall. Martha moved close to see stairs and paths and rails and streams twisting through and around each other and themselves. Closer, she could see each course in black had, not quite shadows, but rather offset, faint echoes in gray. It was Escher multiplied by Escher and Martha had to close her eyes for the sake of her equilibrium.

"I've had some time on my hands," he said.

"I gathered," she said and reopened her eyes. James took her hand and led her to sit on the edge of his bed. She let out a breath slowly.

"Painting it helps me relax," he said. "Gives me a sense of control."

"That gives you a sense of control?"