broken bikes

of paintings

He was painting the day she walked out the door. 

It was a picture of her. A grand, colorful, elaborate painting of her in his favorite red dress and in her favorite black heels. Her hair was large and curly and blonde. Her eyes weren't looking forward, they were off elsewhere, like they usually were. 

He didn't try to stop her as she left, and she didn't expect him to. Because he was far more in love with that painting than he was with her. 

She didn't wear his favorite red dress all the time, and she hardly wore her favorite black heels anymore. Her hair had flattened and the curls were tangled and it had turned from blonde to brown. Her eyes still didn't look forward, though, they were always off elsewhere. 

She left the day that he made that painting. Because she realized that day that he wasn't in love with her, he never had been. 

He was too in love with the idea of her to love who she really was.