spaghetti and earthquakes

he lives alone at the tender age of 27, although there is nothing tender about his apartment carpeted with cigarette ash and the hook-ahs/ers that have surrendered their cancerous breath within its walls. it was long ago when he discovered that one does not live in new york city, one survives through new york city, and that suits him just fine.

he makes his living selling paintings, but others argue that it will be the death of him. no one buys his paintings. too depressing, they say, as they pass by his little ocean of canvases on the corner of 58th and broadway. he has decorated the streets of manhattan with paper windows to a world of dead pigeons, bloodied handkerchiefs, and children crying, constantly crying, crying for their mother who will never come back. they ask him why he paints such things and he laughs. life, he replies. i paint life.

--

his apartment is a graveyard of memories, memories that he have forgotten and promptly buried many years ago. there, that red spot on the ceiling, that's from when she tried making spaghetti. and there, that crack in the wall, that's from the day of the earthquake, when they had sat together in the den, holding each other not in fear for their own lives but for each others'. and which corner was it that he proposed in? oh yes, the one by the kitchen, how could he forget.

forget.

yes, that would be nice, he thinks. to forget. to forget her tiny feet that barely made a sound against his creaking laminate. the sound of her smile, that tiny pop of air when her lips parted and the suction was released. who was she, he wonders. did i love her? the pop of air when he parts his lips to speak is familiar. "m-" he begins. the sound of his voice sounds alien to him. "m-molly." it is a nice word, he decides. a pretty word.

--

by eight his stomach is grumbling and he lumbers to the fridge. in it is a sad excuse of leftovers and microwave meals, and half of a kit-kat bar, her favorite, which he had saved for her. he debates with himself whether to eat it or not. he argues that she's never going to eat it anyway, so he pops it in his mouth. it is stale but he and his heart both agree that it is the most delicious thing they have ever eaten. it tastes like spaghetti and earthquakes.

--

when the memories become too much for him, he opens up that set of acrylics once again, the one with cracked tubes and crusty paint on the rims. that set of acrylics that she had eagerly thrust at his chest on his birthday 3 years ago, saying "i know painting is not your thing but you'll grow to love it", but he had grown to love her instead. painting is his only refuge. he unscrews the tube of carmine, the color her blood had been when the car couldn't brake quickly enough, the color her blood had been when he broke his promise that he'll protect her forever. he tries to squeeze out the paint onto his pallet, but it is empty. no, please, don't die on me now, he says as he tries the last tube of paint, but it is no use. the paints, and she, are gone forever.