Malcolm hung his latest painting above the couch in the living room. Everything was still clean, for when she came back. But another month had passed.
For the first time, all of the paintings hung throughout the apartment were Malcolm’s original work. Some were abstract, and some weren’t, but they had all been parts of a journey. He felt better. Better than when he had been using, in fact. The painting he’d just hung above the couch was one of himself: a photo-realistic Latino man who cleaned up well.
Malcolm returned to his studio once more. He put on his apron, which was coated in a rainbow of oils, and which hadn’t been worn over a sweatshirt in weeks. He set another canvas on the stand, picked up the next of his old sketches off of the pile, and got to work painting.
© Ray Underscore Thompson, November 2015