The giant bay windows demanded a plethora of hand-painted suncatchers. It was the law.
That’s what she said, at least.
He’d never been a fan her willy-nilly, miss-matched, messy aesthetic, but it was her studio and the works of art she produced in there helped pay for date nights, so he saw no reason to complain.
Especially once she was gone.
Each square of colored light on the walls was one of her sun dresses. When a breeze blew in and made the plastic frames clack against the glass, that was her clapping along to a made-up song. The winding black lines that separated the sections of bright color were her hand-written love notes that now covered the walls.
She had rarely ever cleaned the room. Now he wondered if he ever would. To get rid of all the color, all the scraps of fabric, the paint drops of the floor, and the suncatchers, would be like getting rid of her, and he never wanted to do that.
He hadn’t meant to, at least.
Image from Here