This way. Pablo will be late for work, has lost his keys, looks over and sees himself searching, searches through the crowd of Pablos looking for keys, blue and darker blue, finds a red Pablo putting the keys down, sees a red dog’s tail come wagging past, sees red keys disappear below the couch. Pale blue, he finds them. No color at all, he finds them. Red Pablos keep searching. Pablo follows the dark blue trail of himself out the door and down the stairs and into the street.
The arch of the sun is wide today. Summer light will lay in thick layers across the city. Predawn, he relishes the cool opalescence and looks forward, shading his eyes against the blue wash. The red night is past; blue day begins.
Pablo rides the train to work. Red and blue, he lives outside the city, not liking the mass of history that pushes together there, overused palimpsest. Gertrude tells him that every place is all used, that all colors are worn equally, but Pablo, he is solipsist, or mildly; blue tracks of fox chasing red sprint of hare do not bother him, but to always be crushed together between people, to always be pinioned by blue future, red past, track upon track crowding out his own bichromatic wiggle, this he does not relish.