The Small Pink House (Near a Barn)
In this small pink house, which readily failed to please the eye at first sight, stood flat like on a terrain. In this small pink house lived a man. An ordinary man. A man whose portrait becomes that much more encompassing when drawn or painted.
In this barn, which stood out to many, stood beside this small pink house, and in this barn lived a woman. An ordinary woman. A woman whose picture becomes that much more enticing when captured in frame.
The man in this small pink house stood at a medium height, his eyes large and azure such that they met the corners of his wide lips as if if one were to draw a line from tip to tip, they lined up just shy of his eyebrows. Above it was his light brown hair that rested in a V-shape on his large and venerable forehead. His shoulders were mediumly brooded but appeared even more so with a silk black jacket with white linings coating the edges.
The woman in the barn stood a little taller in height, her cheekbones full and high. Her nose was a mix of celestial and Greek, her lashes short, with only a little bit of space underneath that led to her thin upper lip and a slightly thicker bottom one. Her hair was a dirty blond and here petite ears hid away beneath it.
Laying dormant on his back while staring at the ceiling came with it no reaction to the nearby road of cars passing by. Vanity arose in the essence of his soul, but maybe because of the tint of his windows that prevented anyone from seeing inside. A pink house. A girls house. Why a man lived in it, soon will be discovered. Meanwhile the woman’s barn had no windows. A mattress of hay with an old mahogany shelf, a lamp, a fissure. One day the man came knocking on the barn.
‘Have an extra pot of cold flour?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry?’ the woman asked. She was aware of who he was but only now in what appeared to be the first time since she moved in, spoke with him. ‘Cold flour? What would you need cold flour for?’
‘I burned my skin. They say the first remedy after getting burned is to put cold flour on it.’
‘Cold flour on the burn?’
‘Precisely…’ he declared.
‘Fascinating. Let me see the burn. How did you manage to cause such an inflection?’
‘Was roasting some corn on the cob.’
‘Corn on the cob, eh? Well, okay… Come in, I guess. I’ll put a cup in the fridge.’
‘You know what, I think it’s fine. I’m feeling better.’ And the man left.
The next day the man came knocking on the barn once more. ‘I was cooking something. Something special. But I came to the realization that I had not any eggs.’
‘That you had not any eggs, eh?’ laughed the women.
‘Yes…’ said the man.
‘Interesting…’ posited the women. ‘May I ask what you are making?’
‘Just an egg.’
‘I see.’
‘So, can I have it?’
‘I have a few eggs to spare. How many you need?’
‘Just one. I just need one…’ he got frustrated.
‘Okay, here you are.’ And the man left.
What made this week of particular significance to the man was that under his decree, a group of painters were to arrive at the end of the week. They were to paint the house black or blue, green or even yellow. Purple? Maybe brown. The glistening rays of the sun pressing against the coat of his house made the man as he walked towards it, entering, took off his work boots and off rinsed his hands from stains of copper and cement. A hardy stew was on his mind. But he’d have to cook it first.
‘Hello.’ said the man. ‘How, how was your day?’
‘It was alright. Rather dull. Boring to say the least. Listen, before you begin, let me just say this. You have been here the last few days. Heck, we’ve been neighbours for how many years? This is perhaps the most we’ve spoken. May I ask why? Have you got the sudden urge to cook? Isn’t the shop only a mile down the road?’
‘Sure it is. But the way the cars roll down the street.’
‘How is it the cars roll down the street?’ she intrigued.
‘They’re loud.’
‘Don’t you work in a mine or at a construction site or something?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Isn’t that loud?’
‘It is.’ said the man.
‘Huh…’ she responded.
‘It is getting late and I am hungry, I wondered—’
‘What were you going to cook?’ she interrupted.
‘A stew…’ he exhaled.
‘A stew! How incredible the odds! I cooked one! Enough for two! Come, come in.’
‘You know, it’s fine. I, I would rather cook it myself.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I just needed some pinto beans.’
‘I, I just ran out…’ said the women. ‘Are you sure? I am a great cook.’
‘Actually, I remember, I have leftovers from the night before.’
‘If you say so…’ she said. And the man left.
The next morning the lady knocked on his door.
‘Hello!’ she said.
‘Oh, oh hello.’
‘I’m making breakfast and I needed some butter.’
‘I, I… I think I have some’ he said putting on his boots.
‘Sorry, were you about to leave?’ she said, leaning back and forth to have a look inside.
‘I was. Actually, I am in a hurry. Take the keys. The butter is in the fridge. Lock, lock it up when you’re done.’
‘Sounds good…’ she said.
‘Actually, sorry. Sorry…’ he stumbled taking off his boots. ‘Let me get it. Let me. Okay, here. I must go now.’ It was upon this moment that the women realized that the butter had melted in his very hands. She stood and wondered why as she recalled seeing nothing that resembled the preparation of a meal, no pans on the stovetop, no bowls or ceramics in the sink. Whether the fridge was plugged in or not, she could not remember. What she did see was a half-opened window. Perhaps left that way to let in the cool summer air. She peaked inside.
‘What’re you doing?’ said the man.
‘I, I thought you left!’
‘Please, please leave. I forgot something.’
‘I didn’t mean to…’
‘Just leave.’
The next day was Thursday. She waited for the doorbell to ring but it didn’t. So she went to his small pink house. There was no answer.
Finally, Friday came and the woman came home exhausted. She placed her hand on her forehead, waiting, and finally gave up. And the moment she lost hope that she’d speak to the man again, he knocked.
‘Hello.’ said the man.
‘Greetings!’ said the lady, suddenly filled with life.
‘Do you have a carrot? The lighter, the better.’
‘A carrot? What for? Don’t tell me you got a rabbit.’
The man quickly got upset. ‘I should go.’
‘No, no stay! Why don’t you come in? In fact, I have a garden in the back with fresh summer carrots. Ready and grown. You can have an entire basket if you like.’
As the man heard that the choice of carrots and their colors could vary, he skidded inside.
‘This one…’ he said choosing the one with the lightest color. ‘I want this one…’ and faintly hummed.
‘This one it is!’ she said happily.
And the man left.
The sound of birds woke the woman up at a quarter to seven. She stepped outside her barn, waited and waited, and thought to give the man some space. Afterall, he did come in last night, she thought, that’s already progress. Around a minute or two later, two men dressed in black shirts and rugged beige pants came knocking on the mans door. In their hands were several brushes of different bristles and a canister of black paint. Out came the man.
‘So, we painting?’ said a man.
‘Yes, just, just get it over with.’
‘Man up, would you?’ said the other.
‘Just, just—’ and the woman walked towards them.
‘Sing me a song…’ she interrupted.
‘What?’ said the man.
‘Who is she?’
‘My neighbour. A song? What song?’
‘The song you hummed last night.’
‘Opa!’ said the men in unison.
‘Would you please go?’ he asked, his cheeks turning red.
She hummed the song faintly and he soon hummed along. Meanwhile, the men rolled their eyes, opened the canister, and started painting. The man didn’t even notice. And soon, his small pink house was now fully coated black. The men left laughing as he turned to witness what to him was repulsion and started to cry. The woman held him in his arms and brought him inside her barn.
And the very next day, a Sunday to be specific, she painted her large brown barn a solemn kind shade of pink.
~
