From that moment on, I never again doubted what I wanted to do. I had always wanted to paint. And when I returned home, not a single day passed when I abandoned that dream. I became a fanatic of my own craft.
The painting hung in my room, later moving with me to my studio. It became my "safe island"—a touchstone to return to for peace and a reminder of why I did this. On particularly hard days, when sales of my work slumped, I would step closer to it, inhale the scent of paint and fabric, close my eyes, and imagine the sun-weathered artist, his dry hand sketching that boat as if, upon finishing, he could board it and sail into the unknown.
It didn’t matter if it was winter or autumn outside, if rain poured or snow fell. Near that painting, it was always summer. My own little world, carefully built from sensations and emotions. Turns out, orange is the hit of any season.
I shook off the wandering thoughts and returned to searching for a bus stop.
Turning off the highway onto a two-lane speedway, I scanned the area. The midday heat was oppressive, and the lifeless steppes had taken on orange-beige tones. It was strange to think the lake was so close yet there wasn’t a hint of green here.
Across the road, running parallel to the highway, stretched a double wire fence—flimsy as if it could ever stop a speeding car.
Speaking of cars, there were none in sight. Not surprising.
Who’d even come out to this backwater? Maybe picnickers or lost tourists, if that.
A small, gray metal plaque was welded to the side of the bus stop, its surface worn and dusty with age, displaying the faded schedule of routes.
Perfect. At least buses do come here. That means all I have to do is wait for one. Doesn’t matter where it’s headed—just need to get out of here first. And preferably before dark…
I sat on the flimsy bench beneath the shelter’s overhang and strained my ears, hoping to pick out the familiar rattle of an engine amid the sounds of nature. But only the wind hummed along the deserted highway. Nearby, a crumpled, empty soda can rolled by—bright red, the only splash of color in this bleached-out landscape, something for tired eyes to latch onto.
I had no belongings with me. When I’d stormed out of the house (while the kid was still hurling curses from his room), I’d only managed to grab a gray flannel shirt from the trunk to throw over my shoulders—protection against sunburn, if nothing else.