A Storm in a Teacup

She looked at the painting adorning her living room wall. It had always disturbed her deeply. Yet, she knew she’d never be able to bring herself to get rid of it. It just had to stay. The painting in question had been her masterpiece. She hadn’t painted since. Not because she couldn’t do better but because she just couldn’t. It was a constant reminder of the day he picked up his things and left without a word. While she has still not been able to pick up all the pieces of her heart that he left in his wake.
She took a step forward to observe it closely. It had been years since she’d given it more than a passing glance, always afraid of the memories it would evoke. Now, however, she looked at the painting rather than the emotions.

Climbing up on a footstool, she carefully brought the painting down and took it over to the table. Sitting down, she picked up her cup of tea – half finished from when she had abandoned it earlier in her reverie. She perused the painting again.

The delicate brush strokes, the clever mixing of colours, even the shaded tones that gave it a vivid hue did not escape her notice.

“Bleh”, she said, standing up. “I can do so much better.”

The door to her studio was unlocked today.

The teacup left abandoned once again.


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