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Blue

Roger sat under a tree in the park staring up into the sky. The sky was such a bright, intense blue today that it almost hurt to keep your eyes on it for too long. Roger kept looking anyway. There was something about that color blue, something familiar.

It felt comforting to find that vaguely familiar blue out here. He hadn't been outside in ages, and everything felt strange to him. It was like it was his first day in New York all over again. It had almost chased him back into hiding until he'd caught sight of that blue; like ice. Where had he seen that blue before?

A leaf fell from the tree overhead and landed on his leg. It was red. The color was beautiful, but it didn't call to him like the blue did. The leaf was only the focus of Roger's attention for a moment before he returned to staring at the sky.

Roger didn't think he'd ever seen a blue sky in New York before. It had always seemed gray, or stained by the sunset. He liked the blue better. He could hear people moving around him and it seemed as if each word, laugh, grunt, or dog bark had its own note. Roger began to name them. That woman was a G flat. This little boy was an F natural. That cat was a C sharp.

Slowly the notes seemed to come together in his mind, all backed by the low beat of that blue. The blue was a low D. Suddenly everything was part of the song. The blue held all of it together, turning chaos into harmony. The wind became a trill that made all the sounds blend into one great sound. Roger didn't think he could have written it down if he had brought paper. It would have been almost sacrilegious.

"Roger? What are you doing here?"

The distracted guitarist turned quickly and locked eyes with the smiling filmmaker. They were blue. As Mark walked over and sat beside him Roger's fascination with the sky was dissolved. He had all of that blue he could ever want right beside him. Why reach for something so very far away and suddenly so very much less beautiful than the boy laughing beside him on the grass?