She was absolutely normal. She grew up without a dad, but so did they. They crushed her pansies down with shoes she couldn’t name, right heels rubbed commuter raw. There was nothing to envy in those jacket-wrapped silk-satin shells. Her life was exactly what she wanted. The earth accepted her gifts, returning favors with blossoms and symmetry. Each morning, she stepped from her patio into her temporal office, pruning thoughts and whetting desire.

Her mother asked, “When are you going to grow up? You’re 34 years old and you still live in an apartment alone. How are you going to find a man when you’re covered in dirt and smell like a farmer?” A man. She had one once. Once was enough. Those women in stockings wilted in mailroom scowls and swimming pool anxiety. Moist skin hid molding despair and regret. There was no jealousy in her coveralls of invisibility.

Her patio blooms mocked pale waxed handbags, scarves, decapitated cherry bubbles. They left in bouncing curls and limped home at night with gray pencil men, ghosts with heads of numbers. Transactions traded figure for figure then burst for winter’s frost. Painting pastel paths, her living colors on flesh taunted theirs chafed dead under layers. She worked in soil unsoiled and watched the others swallowed by worms.

The sky was definitely yellow, but the time for agreement had passed. She stepped back through the sliding door, still eyeing the courtyard below. “Did you take out the recycling?” She heard the truck a few buildings down and spun to face him. He wasn’t looking.

He spent more time erasing than drawing. The rubber crumbs doubled in reflection on the dining table, the one piece of real furniture she owned. She unearthed the brush from his satchel and thrust it under his nose. He accepted it without looking up and swept the crumbs onto the carpet.

He noticed the sky, or a spider web, or a crack in the ceiling, but she was invisible. She collected the recycling and dropped it near the front door while he labored over his final project. Six years. She worked and paid the bills while he fattened himself on knowledge.

She changed into her uniform, saffron sky parching bitter lines in the bedroom mirror. Dust scuttled as she slung the drapes across the track, willing the sky black. He was smoking on the patio again. He smiled and told her she looked pretty. Pretty. Pretty enough to scrub some rich guy’s toilet. She glared and stomped to the kitchen.

His drawing spread tempting on the table, now clear of crumbs. Finish spray moistened the dark secrets of the body he created from living dreams. He lived while she stood in decay. She surged with power, knowing his weakness. Testing the moment, she spoke, “You’re right. The sky is yellow.” The truck choked and bellowed as it passed.

The sky darkened when she left. He stuffed his satchel and stripped the pillows of their cases. Cramming clean clothes in one case and books in the other, he debated nothing. He squeezed onto the old pickup bench with his accumulated years beside him. The recycling truck ground its way back again as the wind whipped garbage across the courtyard.

In a slice of clarity, he braved the storm and returned to the apartment. He wrested the key from the ring and plunked it down on the wilted drawing. Swinging the recycling bag over his shoulder, he walked away without closing the door. Dark wind swiped his burden and splayed the contents across the disappearing pavement. Entombed in the truck, he lurched through the parking lot, impotent headlamps challenging speed bumps and swirling debris. A potted cactus rushed at the windshield and he held his breath, eyes open. In the quiet of that moment, the dregs parted. He exhaled and drove from the screeching menace and into the yellow sky.

Then he remembered. He returned and removed the key, placing it on the table next to the prone body. He swung the recycling and left the front door open. Wind swiped his burden and splayed it across the disappearing pavement. Entombed in the truck, he lurched through the parking lot, impotent headlamps challenging the speed bumps and swirling debris. A potted cactus cracked the windshield and he held his breath. In the quiet of that moment, the dregs parted and revealed the yellow. He exhaled and drove away from the screeching menace.