Singing, he crossed the kitchen to the living room, his hair curled and sprayed with elastesse, Pierre Balmain skimmed his lips, and the faint scent of his neck suggested a field of wildflowers, yellow, red, orange, like the rays of a sun. He couldn't even remember the name of the song he was singing, nor all the words. Quickly, he switched to humming as he capered past the floral sofa and up the stairs, to the bedroom he shared with his wife.
It was as if she had never been there, in the cold white room of his mind, with the bathroom pristine and orderly, and all the perfume, nail polish, hair products, brushes, combs, makeup in colors of red and pink and purple of Valentine's Day and love-- all were not hers. He was faced with the white room with its unfeeling carpet of red and tan, its window which seemed to let in no light. Outside was the same. It was all the same. Dark, frightening in a way that it never had been before.
He twirled on one foot in the center of the room, his velvet dress fluttering as he did so. He was falling, and he knew it. Falling, falling, and the white was so oppressive. It was a hospital room all over again. He couldn't stay. He couldn't go. His choices were so limited.