A clear blue afternoon, a quiet apartment, a man gazes up at the sky.
A comforting light that ebbs through the blinds, glowing lines in strict patterns on the floor, highlighting the knots and swirls of the floorboards.
The evening is settling around him as he sits quietly, leaning back in his favourite chair. A book lies open in his lap, propped open where he stopped reading, a soft voice sings in the background over a gently plucked guitar.
Looking out through the window he watches the clouds lazily scroll past, the blue already fading, heading for a soft and balmy evening. He casts his mind back and smiles at the chosen memories, forever private to him, meaningless to others, the tiniest moments from the past.
He has always had an eye for detail, for nuance and the finest shades of dark and light. He has never questioned his taste, only tried to refine it and embrace what it brought. He would find himself staring at the simplest of shapes for hours and it was the details he remembers. The gentle curve of a vase is what stuck in his mind not the year it was made, the gentle brushstrokes of a painted river lodged in his brain but mostly he would be unable to recall the artist. Exceptions occurred, Hofmann and Cezanne, Eames and Bass, a mish-mash of culture and design.
After a while the music changes as the sun slides out of view, the glowing pattern fading from the floor. He closes his eyes as he listens to her moving around in the next room and as he tries to guess what she’s doing, Cezanne and Bass combine, the stylised brushstrokes follow, dipping and blooming into view, each detail fresh in his mind.
A soft voice calls him to the bedroom.
As he rises from his chair he spots the last glimpse of blue slip from the sky. He knows it will return soon and, with a smile, follows her voice back to see it again.