Red apples in a blue bowl.The deep blue the color I imagined the bottom of the ocean must look like. The sheen of the fruits’ skin glistening like rubies. I couldn’t decide if I derived more pleasure from looking at the apples or eating them. Decided it didn’t matter. I was supposed to be sketching the apples for my art class, not thinking about eating them. I had to complete my still life by tomorrow, yet my pad was bare, and though my charcoal was raised diligently over the page it was not moving.
My attention was suddenly diverted from the apples to the boy who lay on my couch in half sleep. He murmured something that could have been either a question or a response. His black hair was a sharp contrast against the pale milk of his skin. The eyes that were now closed were the purest shade of green, a hue I could never seem to replicate with my oils.
There was so much I wanted to tell him, so many words unsaid. They shook inside me like unused pennies. The impatience singing in my blood. I remained still.