Yellow | Michael Dickel

Of course, yellow is less stupid than either jello or Cupid. He always eats jello, and talks about how Cupid brought us together. But he hates yellow.

So, yellow? Less stupid.

Like this morning. He wolfs down vibrating orange gelatin. (Orange has yellow in it, right? Why does he eat orange if he hates yellow?) He calls this breakfast. I call it sick.

Then he smiles that sticky, sickly sweet smile, orange-tinged orangutan lips so happy to see me.

Pour me my coffee, and I’ll talk to you about breakfast next week. But make sure when we do, we’re talking eggs, some fried potatoes, OJ and coffee. Not this un-solid candy-like goo. He wants me to eat it, too.

He insists on pink wallpaper in my room. No yellow in that ugliness—dark-pink flowers climb vertical lines between lacy stripes of medium pink, all on a light-pink background.

I can’t believe they sell shit like this.

In my vanity mirror, all I see is his reflection. I don’t see my yellow aura in all of his pink.

The kitchen walls reflect a pure-white with no hint of “off” yellowness. The living room has sky-blue walls. His room? Dark blues tinged by black accents, dangerously dark, no yellow hints.

Let’s not talk about his messy room.

He’ll drop a note before he leaves, while I’m washing away my night in his shower.

The note will have a heart with an arrow through it—Cupid’s arrow. And it will say all of these things about loving me, holding me in his thoughts and heart, and how much gratitude he holds for Cupid.

I only see a hole, red blood flowing out. I wonder how you could stay alive with an arrow through your heart.

When he comes back, he will say some bullshit about how he felt like a piece of him was missing the whole time he was away from me.

He’s a romantic, optimistic about his world and his place in it.

I’m the realist, pessimistic. I have no place in his world, although his photos of me sit on a desk somewhere, I imagine. I’d like to die, most days, to tell you my truth.

Put me in a yellow coffin with a yellow-satin liner.

He locks the door on his way out, from the outside. He used to lock me in my bedroom, but not anymore.

The neighbors don’t notice me. They don’t see my yellow aura in his violet eyes.

If I could paint the walls in his absence, I’d strip the wallpaper, paint them all yellow. It would make him sick—perhaps, kill him. He hates yellow.

I’d have to get out that door, though. And buy the paint. And come back.

Yellow is less stupid than either jello or Cupid, but coming back?

Now, that really would be stupid.

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