A Hue of Blu

The painting was never removed.

“Controlling Chaos” reminded Jace of his demons, even though he no longer struggled with past grief anymore.

There was a time when he believed that life handed out aces to people who didn’t deserve it, and standing in a polished grey suit, dimming the lights of Prix art gallery, he felt like he was one of those people.

When Mel took over the gallery two years ago, she employed Jace to work as assistant manager.

“It’s the least I could do for a friend,” she’d told him.

He greatly appreciated the opportunity, though it wasn’t something he worked for. Maybe that’s why he felt stuck in an endless cycle of nothingness, because life rewarded him despite his lack of efforts.

It’d always been that way, he thought. With everything, with everyone. The things he lost he could never get back.

But four years later and someone entered the gallery, stepping right in front of the painting he knew they both loved.

She didn’t know he was there, she couldn’t have. Her eyes were glued to the intersecting lines, the dot protected by a bleeding hue.

“Your hair’s different,” he said, recognizing that almost everything about her had changed.

She turned to him then, golden flecks in her brown eyes winking into his blue-green sea.

“You look different,” she responded, though her voice was levelled and calm, a tone Jace was never familiar with.

“It’s the suit,” he joked, and she chuckled. No bitterness laced in her tone.

He stepped up beside her, gazing at the painting. “I run the gallery when Mel’s away,” he started. She turned to him. “I work here.”

“You look like you own the place.”

“I wish.”

“Why wish?” she questioned, “When you can do?”

His eyes were gentle. “Maybe one day.”

He wasn’t talking about his job.

She knew that, even four years later.

A moment of silence passed between the two as they both returned their attention to the painting.

“Have you found your hue?” she whispered softly, her eyes following the cracks of the painting.

The memories of her flashed in his brain, but they were no longer a representation of the women standing beside him.

“I might have,” he smiled, “What was your name again?”

She stepped closer, the corner of her lips curving upwards as she linked her pinky finger to his.

“Beatrice Henderson.”