By Susan Isreal

 “I don’t get it,” the woman said. “Is this art?”

 “Well, of course it’s art or it wouldn’t be hanging on the wall here,” the man replied, his intonation suggesting he might have added would it, but thought better of it. 

 “I’m not seeing it.”

“Everything’s not water lilies and sunflowers, you know.” 

She frowned. “Would you want this hanging in your living room?”

He stepped closer to the painting.  “In our living room? No, because it would clash terribly with the orange and purple, but otherwise yeah, I could see it in a living room.”

“Maybe Rothko’s living room.”

“Rothko’s dead.”

“Probably killed himself after working on that day and night.”

He didn’t want to tell her she was partially right. He reached for her hand just as she folded her arms. “It’s only a painting.” A painting that’s worth millions, he thought. Why are we fighting over this?

“Could you imagine this in a bedroom?” She persisted.  “Can you imagine trying to sleep looking at that?”  

All that red. Color of blood. She shuddered. When was the last time she had her period? How late was it? The only red she wanted to see and there was no sign of it. Just a big blob of red on canvas. 

“Could you imagine it in a nursery?”

“No,” he shook his head emphatically. “No, I definitely can’t. But it’s not like we have to worry about that, is it?”

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Susan Israel’s work has recently been published in MacQueen’s Quinterly, 50 Word Stories, Flash Boulevard, and is forthcoming in The Dribble Drabble Review and Blink-Ink. She lives in Connecticut and likes visiting art galleries.