“Do you see the red line floating across the golden ball of sun? This thin streak that splits it into perfect halves like a neatly cut melon?” He fell silent contemplating the moment, the texture, the rich acrylics.
“Can you imagine what was it that she thought, that her brush dipped in red ripped through the heart of the sun, and it must not have taken a single stroke, you see. She must have swept it twice. Or thrice maybe, for that matter. Do you know what exactly makes a fragile brush in a delicate, feminine grip stab and rip and tear like that?”
“I don’t either but it must be something really intense. Something that has set the sky ablaze, the wild grass crimson, the lake murky, the kayaks fluttery and the sailors, silhouettes against a scarlet sky.”