colored chemicals

Two beheaded bodies lied on the floor. I was sure it wasn't my fault but she kept on cleaning every single corner of the house. No dirt, no proofs.
He wouldn't talk. It was too much for him. Too much of that happiness.
I tried the casual conversation and the casual smiles and the casual shoulder-to-shoulder. Nothing seemed to work. They were both too busy covering the heads with strawberry cheesecake. The best love therapist for three pounds fifty. Affordable ways.
Still, she wanted something else. None of that was connected with her recent love. Between the shelves, the dust, inside the drawers, the papers, under the bed, the shoes, over the closets, dust again. I couldn't find a single one of those solid colored chemicals she loved so much.
And she got tired.

In the meanwhile, the older man came back. Giving hugs along with handshakes of how are you. No one seemed to enjoy it, the smelly happy face. But she knew it was because of the journey, it was three fifty in his first world.
He was smelling to sleep, and she smilled too.


II

It came unexpected. They hadn't been sleeping for six months. Remembering warm feet under bed sheets was so very nice. And dreaming about flying and about painting and about him and her and biology and all the colors of it. They hadn't had enough. The desired chemical was hidden somewhere and they would find it as soon as possible.
And have it, and drink it, and spread it and drown themselves in it. Coloreds.

The sleep could come at last.