Kicking The Bucket

He walked around the room, foot in front of foot, pacing like a cat. Then he stood and looked out of the window. It was twilight outside. The sun grazed over the New York City skyline giving it a nostalgic glow. Clouds like whispers covered the sky, barely visible but you could see them if you looked closely enough. The few trees that still stood were barren and hung in the sky like the shadow of a dancer, arms poised in mid air, ready to take her next step.

The apartment was old, hipster style. It was a round room, all paneled in a gray tinged wood. One giant window lit it, its frames were a pale black and reflective.

He stood in middle of the room, arms clutched behind his back. Slowly turning, he gave his attention to a paint bucket in middle of the floor.

One foot in front of the other, the man paced around it. His dark brown dress shoes made satisfying tapping sounds as he placed each foot on the ground. Tip-TAp, Tip-TAp. They said. LIsten, they spoke. I may not be talking, but I am saying the secrets of the world. Tip-TAp, Tip-TAp.

The bucket was small, metal, cold. It seemed to be looking at him sarcastically, smirking at his every move. But at the same time, it looked chained to some invisible force. Captured by gravity, unable to fly.

Was it really gravity? The man wondered. Was it really gravity, holding her down?

He crouched beside it, elbows resting on his knees, brown eyes studying the bucket blankly. The handle of the bucket lay across its top like a sweep of hair. Maybe that was holding it down, that little metal handle.

No, he shook his head. No, the handle was for men to hold onto. And maybe, if they were strong enough to lift it off the ground.

It’s the paint. He understood. Heavy, thick, inscrutable paint. Pulling her down, chaining it to the ground.

What color would it be? Perhaps, just perhaps it was yellow. Bright and cheerful, a flash of sunlight in this dark, gray room. Or maybe it was white, pure, clear white with flecks of sinful black. Or was it a sinful black, with flecks of innocent white? Was it orange, sweet, fresh and creative, or red, passionate, burning, torrid. Blue, deep and sullen with eyes that sparkled, or green, like spring. Green like the dresses on forty seventh street. Green like money, like greed.

It could be green.

Gray. He nodded. It would be gray. Dull and cold, desperate and broken. Not quite sure what was good, or bad, right or wrong, hero or villain.

The man removed his glove. It was thick leather. Inside of its rich camel covering was white rabbit fur. He stuffed it into his brown tweed jacket and slowly lifted the paint lid.

He paused.

Furry took him. Furry, like red, like anger. Rushing through his veins. Like a river, like an ocean.

He stood up. His brown dress shoe kicked the bucket. With furry. With hate. Gray. With despair.

The bucket flew across the room and slammed into the wall. Bam. It said. Bam. It spoke.

It wasn’t gravity keeping you on the ground. He thought.

Tip-TAp, Tip-TAp. He stormed out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him.

Paint spilled from the bucket inside the room. It bled from the dents like blood. Brown. The paint was brown.