'You and me and the abstract' by Karen Walker

You find me staring at an abstract painting. You grunt, "Hurry up." 

We passed an art show on the way home. "Can we stop for a few minutes?" I had asked. "Please." 

In the work, I see yellow clouds dripping blue tears.  

"What? I never get you."  

The art does. I want it. It wants me.

You glance at the price. Glare at me. 

The clouds turn orange. Coppery. I know the painting knows you count every penny. 

"You're not buying this, this mess." 

"Yes, I am." 

Red rises in your face and seeps onto the canvas. 

"We're leaving," you snap. "Now." 

No.  

You curse purple. "This is f*ing ridiculous."

People hear you. 

So does the painting. Purple blotches appear. It's not afraid of you.  

Your bluster blows over because it isn't, I think.  

A grey wash—fog?—in one corner of the picture lifts, revealing horizontal lines and a circle underneath.   

To me, a bridge arching over a river. 

The water in the art is a friendly, eco-friendly green reflection despite how you're behaving.     

I also reflect. Decide okay, will try. I reach for your hand and, clenching it tight enough to make it hurt, yank you onto the bridge. "Let's go for a stroll and talk."