CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Martins splattered a sea blue to the wavy sketch on his canvas. Then a red followed and he changed the brush to one with tinier and pointed bristles to outline certain details in his abstract painting. An array of varying colours produced an aesthetic polychrome. His hand held the palette now jumbled with different colours as each thick chunk of paint mixed with the others. A serious discerning look cornered his brow as he stared keenly at the life he was moulding.

His mother walked in after struggling to fit herself through the door because Martins had pushed his chair to stand in as a wedge. He wanted quiet, as he did whenever he painted or whenever he read or slept or ate. He would slowly descend the stairs with his pajamas and scoop one spoon full of whatever steamed from the pot and fly up, bolting the door and shutting the world out with his headphone.