It was a Tuesday when Roy decided to paint his window black. It was a useless window, really. He couldn’t really see out of it, because it was so encrusted with years upon years of grime. Even if he did scratch through, all he would find would be a marvelous view of the brick wall of the neighboring building. With a sigh, he set to pouring the thick paint into the pan and readying the rollers.

The door opened behind him. He heard the thump of Tina’s purse hitting the wooden floor, the jingling of her keys, the rustle of her coat, and the scraping of leather soled shoes across the boards. “What are you doing, Roy?”

He coughed into his elbow, covering the roller in the paint. He straightened, but paused, staring at the window. “Doesn’t this window call out to you? It’s as if it’s saying, ‘Paint me! Paint me!’ I can’t help but be moved to answer its call. Don’t you agree?”

“Not now, Roy. Think before you act this time.”

He turned, putting the roller back into the pan. He looked at Tina, her hands on her hips, her foot tapping on the floor. Tap, tap, tap. It was so fast; it didn’t seem humanly possible.

“What are you staring at?” He looked at her as if for the first time. He noticed the wrinkles on the corners of her mouth and her eyes. Her soft brown hair was pulled back in a harsh bun, making it almost impossible not to look at the worry lines etched into her forehead. Was this really his wife?

She rolled her eyes, threw her hands into the air and stormed off into the kitchen. The sounds of clashing pots and pans and slamming cupboards soon drifted out.

Roy turned back to the window. For a moment, he stared at the grime covered window and the shiny pail of black paint on the floor beneath it. Re-covering it, he went to the sofa and collapsed into its soft green cushions. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took out the last one and put it in his mouth. The empty pack was thrown on the coffee table and then he lit the cigarette. He leaned back, eyes half-closed, and softly breathed in the smoke. Through his eye-lashes, he watched the tendrils of smoke drift in the light as he exhaled.

“I told you not to smoke inside! You are so disgusting!”

Roy didn’t move.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. The toothbrush hung out of the side of his mouth and toothpaste dribbled down his chin. Stubble flecked his face; he hadn’t shaved in the longest time. His eyes were bloodshot and framed with dark circles. Roy didn’t recognize himself anymore.

Resting his hands on the corner of the sink, he stared at his reflection and tried to read the man who was staring back at him. He shook his head, pulling the brush from his mouth and spit the stale foam into the basin and ran the cool water from the faucet. He splashed his face and dried it on a towel.

Standing in his bedroom doorway, the light from the hall sent his shadow to fall on Tina. Her back was turned to him at the moment. He closed the door behind him, plunging the room into darkness, and carefully made his way over to his twin bed. The darkness only emphasized the distance between their beds, a distance that yawned like a deep abyss. He sat on his bed, looking over at Tina. Slowly blinking, he slid under the covers and his eyes never left where he knew her back was. She shuffled under the blankets.

“Good night, Roy.” It was a soft whisper, barely audible.

He turned his back to her and closed his eyes. Kind words were a rarity. Sleep was a long time coming.

Roy awoke to the smell of coffee. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning wide. Tina’s bed was neatly made, the covers perfectly placed. Roy never made his bed. Shuffling out, he pulled his robe tightly around him, pausing by the window.

The upper left pane was painted black, obviously fresh by its shininess. Roy frowned, ever so slightly.

Tina was sitting at the small breakfast table in the kitchen, her soft brown hair pulled into a loose bun. The morning newspaper was spread in front of her and she quietly sipped from a mug of steaming coffee.

“I was unaware we had a new Michelangelo in the house,” said Roy, noticing the black paint that speckled her hands for the first time.

She turned a page and didn’t bother to look up.

Roy poured himself a mug of coffee, shuffled out into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He stared long and hard at the blank television screen, every once in a while bringing the steaming coffee to his lips.

The window would have to be finished today. It would get done without him if he didn’t.

Roy was washing his hands in the kitchen sink, watching the paint stain the water black, when she came in. She was home early from work. She stood in the doorway, glaring at him.

“Why aren’t you at work?” she scolded, storming past the kitchen door. Only a few seconds later she reappeared at the door. “I see you finished it.”

She sounded disappointed. It didn’t please him as much as he thought it would.

“I could ask you the same, you know,” he muttered.

“What?”

He turned off the water, and dried his hands.

“Roy, we should, you know, maybe we should go to that new bistro on the corner?” She seemed to be having difficulty talking. She tried a slight smile, but her eyes were almost begging. He brushed past her, pausing in front of the now fully-black window. It looked like a void. She followed him, stopping just behind, outside of his sight.

“It’s my window, Tina. Mine.” For some reason his heart didn’t back his words. Tina’s answering sob was the only thing that filled the silence.

Roy had found another woman. He first met her at the bookstore actually. His bookstore. He and Tina had opened it years ago when they had thought that they would find happiness with their endless books that carried them together to other places. When the world seemed so much brighter to Roy.

She had been reading his favorite book when he found her. He had greeted her and she looked up, surprised. She was blonde, a striking contrast to Tina, and her startling blue eyes peered out from behind black rimmed glasses. She smiled, showing perfect white teeth. It turned out to be her favorite book, too.

They talked. Talked for a while, actually. She was young, which made him feel young again. She was beautiful, and told Roy how smart he was on various occasions. At times, when he told a certain joke, she would just stare at him, but he would assume she was too young, or that he had told it too badly for her to get it. Her name was Mary.

It was the fourth time that he was seeing her that she asked him to come in. They had just gotten back from an early dinner, and he was on her steps when she had said it. He knew what she wanted, so he didn’t know why he was so surprised when her lips met his and she was pulling him towards her bed. All Roy could think about was the coffee that was getting cold out on the table in Mary’s living room.

She was naked, pulling his shirt off when he pulled back.

“I have to go,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

Saying a hurried goodbye, he rushed out of the apartment. His heart was pounding in his head. Roy rushed blindly through the streets till he stood outside his apartment door, feeling a little guilty. A quick appraisal to see if his clothes were rumpled or if he smelled like her apartment told him everything seemed fine, so he opened the door.

Inside, Tina was crying. His first thought was that she had found out.

“Roy! Oh, Roy!” she sobbed. She stood up and swayed over to him, tears streaming down her face. “He’s dead, Roy. Papa’s dead!” She cried into his shirt, shoulders heaving.

He put an awkward hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. All he could manage was to gape like a fish and pat her back roughly. It seemed as if all his muscles were locking up.

Her sobs died down to sniffles and the occasional shiver. Suddenly she pulled back, arms length away, her deep brown eyes probing into his face. Her eyes shimmered with unfallen tears. They looked like a doe’s. They were hard to look at.

“Roy…?” The question hung heavy and silent in the air. He looked away, jaw muscles twitching.

She pulled away, storming to the bedroom. He felt, more than heard, the door slam and the sound of the lock made him flinch. Roy went to the door and knocked on it softly.

“Honey, let me in. C’mon, let me in.” He put his head on the door, something in his throat making it hard to talk. “Please come out.”

He turned around, his back against the door, only to settle his gaze on the black window. It seemed more and more to reflect him every passing day. He hated it, hated it with all his heart.

He slept on the couch that night.

Roy had looked up to Papa like his own father. Back when he and Tina were so very young, so very fresh, Papa was much more supportive than Roy’s old man. When he had made Roy promise to always love Tina, it had seemed to be the easiest promise to make in the entire world. Papa was like a mountain, solidly muscled and thick, even though his temples had long gone grey, and his face became lined with wrinkles. He was a very successful carpenter until arthritis in his powerful hands had forced him to stop, however, every now and then he would make something exquisite out of wood, such as the rocking chair for their wedding night.

That rocking chair was to be for their son or daughter. They were going to name their son after Papa and their daughter after Roy’s mother, but three miscarriages and the crib-death of their daughter had soured that thought until it was only a tattered memory. Roy had destroyed that rocking chair in a drunken rage, back when alcohol was still a comfort. Tina cried for days.

Papa’s hands could create. It seemed Roy’s could only destroy.

Papa had liked Roy at one time, smiling down at him as if he was his own son.

Roy doubted he would still feel the same way that if he was still alive.

It was raining when they lowered the body into his grave. Roy hunkered down into his rain coat, looking for some warmth. His hair was plastered to his forehead, but he could only stare across the pit at Tina, protected from the rain by a large black umbrella. She looked beautiful in her sorrow, with her face slightly hidden by a black veil and her mascara running in black rivulets down her cheeks.

Roy stood by himself on one side, while Tina and the few family members who braved the rain stood opposite. It seemed that was the way it had always been. The priest finished his speech, and men with shovels came to move the dirt onto the coffin. Roy tried to help, but they pushed him away. He lingered for a while to watch the men finish.

“Its time to go,” Tina said softly, placing a hand on his arm and he almost jumped when she touched him. Her umbrella moved to cover him, the lack of rain seeming strange to him.

Roy looked at her with a soft smile on his face. Tina gave a slight squeeze on his arm and he looked back at the grave. His brows furrowed as the grave seemed to grow indistinct through the tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he whispered.

They walked into their apartment with their clothes still dripping rainwater. It seemed like this was the first time they walked in together in such a long time. Roy watched Tina hang up her coat on the hanger, and she took his coat without a second thought. Roy opened his mouth to speak.

Tina turned to him, looking at him with those doe eyes, her soft brown hair spilling to her shoulders. He never realized how much he liked the color brown. Leaning in close, he kissed her on the lips. He pulled away and noticed her give a small smile. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. They squeezed tight as sudden sobs racked his body. Tears streamed down his face even though he was trying to choke them back. Tina looked up, worried, and pulled him to the sofa.

They sat down, and Roy sobbed into her lap. Tina’s hand ran through his wet hair, silently joining as she tired to comfort him.

“Tina! I’m so sorry! So very sorry,” he gasped between sobs. His body shook horribly. He told her all his thoughts, all his misfortunes. That she was his best friend. About Mary. How sorry he was for not giving her a family, for not making her happy. How he felt like it was all his fault. But most of all, how much he loved her. Tina couldn’t help but join in, mixing her tears with his. She told him of her own thoughts of infidelity, her own feelings of inadequacy. How she wanted to be included in his life still, how she felt like she was being pushed to the side. She ended with repeating how much she loved him. Their voices twined together, repeating the words “I love you,” like some lost mantra.

They clung together, like barnacles on a boat. And even though the ship was sinking and had been sinking for such a long time, they could never let go.

That night they slept together in the same bed.

It was a Monday when Roy decided to paint the window. He was tired of black. Tina came up next to him, carrying two mugs of coffee. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they stood, sipping coffee and staring at the window.

“What are you going to paint?” she asked.

“What are we going to paint? I don’t know.” He smiled at her, pulling her close into a giant embrace. She let out a small laugh, and it was the best sound in the world to Roy.

They painted a scene of a meadow in sunshine, with sunflowers and wild flowers in full bloom. It gave them something to look out to, something they created, together. And if one looked very close, so very close, one could just make out three forms dancing in the meadow. A man, a woman, and a small child.

It made them smile, thinking of memories when life had so much promise, and when they had been so very happy.