New Paint

• Tully Combridge, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2021

When I moved in with him, Andy loved my artwork. He’d lift a new piece with pride, and I’d stand aside, as he placed the fresh canvas on the wall. Andy would recline against a brand-new emerald green couch and shake his head over the top of a VB. “You’ve done it again, love.”
That was when we lived by the beach, in the shack I bought before house prices went up. But when Andy started his own business, the architect bought a new place under his own name, and we packed up shop and moved to the top of the hill.
The house is almost top to floor charcoal tiles, tap and light fixtures with shiny black finishes. ‘Luxe’, I believe, is the word Andy used to describe it. Excessive, is what I wanted to say, but never dared let it reach my lips. Suddenly we could afford discreet lighting, and lamp shades worth two-grand, and dusky electronic curtains that draw over huge sea-facing panel windows. I never cared for much of that stuff, thought it was a bit superfluous, but Andy insists that we’re living the coastal dream.
He’s probably right. What would I know, anyway? – Small town artist marries big-shot architect designing entire estates for a booming economy. According to him, I never knew a thing about aesthetics.
This week, Andy came home with a new car. He said that he’d been eyeing it off for weeks, but the purchase was mostly impulsive. I laughed along with him as we sat on the balcony, while he talked about his job until my ears fell off. I smiled, nodded, then took the plates inside.

The piece I’ve been working on for weeks is sitting against the wall and I’m defrosting mince when I hear Andy arrive home. As he enters the warmed kitchen, he glances at the fresh painting, “That’s nice.” He says, as nonchalant as you like.
“You don’t like it?” I ask, noticing details I missed.
“No I do, it’s just… it’s a bit… lurid.” I glance around at the dark walls, dark floor, moody lighting and wide space. “I just mean, wouldn’t it look nice with some black?”
I glance around at the other artwork on the walls. Black, black, red, black. “I guess you’re right.” I say without turning my head towards him.

It’s beyond midnight when the door slams shut. “Jemima!” He yells. “Did you spend four-hundred dollars on paint?!” Andy goes off on a tangent, swaying and bashing around, slurring his words into one, trailing the stench of expensive single-malt.
It’s when he’s finally sunk onto the couch and yelling at the late-night footy replay, that I find myself staring at the painting I liked before he asked me to put black all over it. I look at all of them, sitting on the empty walls against this dull house. My back’s against the wall when I feel the words fall out of my mouth like water, “I want a divorce.”