Part-time Love

If they had told him that he was as plain as the paper he liked to fill with colours, he would not have believed them.
Okay. Possibly a little, but not a lot.
S/he found that he was or, s/he only saw what s/he had wanted to see. In a cloak of sordid fragrance, the man had quietly called over from the opposite end of the bar, where alcohol clogged the senses like the drain in the city sewers. S/he, being the peculiar curious virtuoso of everything as peculiar, walked over with an attempt to hide the slur in the walk. The night had begun and so had the dance.
In hindsight, they both had forgotten to use the regular nuances of what most called ‘a blooming relationship’. Their time together seemed to have been measured by the consistent slippage of the sand in the hourglass, and yet, they had forgotten that time by itself was a human and social construct.
Time, once constructed in its body, could be destroyed by the creator. In hindsight, s/he looked back wistfully at all the time that had been collected in the reservoir of her now fogged hourglass, and remembered his room as she was wont to – in glitches and fast movement. Those were the gloves, the paint and the memories he had made and worn as his cloak, ambling through his life and inviting others to set an imprint on him.
S/he now wondered if he knew that he had collected every single picture as a memory; that his art was imprinted on him by so many others.
Likened to being the room of one’s own.