Fiction: New York Moon

This month's Words for Wednesday prompts are provided by Wisewebwoman and is hosted at Elephant's Child's blog over here. This week's prompts are: arithmetic, daffodils, bicycle, graveyard, sympathy and/or gravy, tugboat, flag, hospital, freedom. Charlotte (MotherOwl) has selected light blue as the colour of the month.

New York Street with Moon by Georgia O'Keeffe

Fiction: New York Moon
It was the view that lured him to buy the place but now all the buildings obscured everything except the moon.
    Drinking hot milk was what he did on weekends. But this Sunday night, he wanted a new habit. He made black tea and sat down on the couch with his hot mug with all the lights off.
    Tonight, the moon was his light. Its light filtered in through the opened light blue curtains. Usually, he would share the view with her - this New York moon with its never fading light. But now he turned his back on it. But he still felt its presence.
    The echo of a train ran through behind him. He took a sip of the tea. The hot liquid warmed him a bit. It was cold walking home from the hospital. Being a doctor was his dream but the job was now arduous and joyless. On the way, he had stopped to watch a tugboat guided a ship toward shore. The ship's flag waved in the wild wind. It had reminded him the only day he had ever sailed. He got seasick but he had never forgotten the freedom he felt being out there while the wind guided him along.
    He turned for a glance at the moon. The bright orb stood as it always had in the dark sky but now framed by tall shadows. He sighed and turned away. On the right side of the room, there was a painting of a full moon above a dark street cafe with empty tables and chairs. Dried daffodils in glass vases were on every table. A rusted bicycle stood by the opened entrance. This was a mimic of the place they used to get coffee but the place had been closed.
    It grew darker. The small glow from the diminutive lamp on the bookshelf barely lit the space. He glanced behind him again. The moon had completely disappeared. All he saw was skyscrapers. He turned away.
    The moon in the painting was gone too. It was as if someone had brushed over it with dark paint. He turned again to look out the windows. The moon still wasn't there. A cold wind whistled in through the small openings of the windows - the sound reminded him of music played in graveyards - muted, slow and full of sympathy and sorrow.
    Something glowed in the room that wasn't there before. It didn't come from the lamp on the bookshelf nor was if from outside. He put his mug down on the coffee table and stood up. His eyes swerved around the room until he spotted the source. A shiver ran down his back. The moon had come back in the painting. It glowed.
    He closed his eyes and rubbed them. No, he was hallucinating. Objects in paintings didn't glow. But the moon in the painting was shining and lighting up the room. A cold sensation weaved through him. If only she was here, he could bear anything. But she wasn't here. And he was alone.
    He veered his eyes to the left side of the wall, toward the portrait. She had insisted on sitting on the wonky stool covered in paint stains. He had laughed at her stubbornness but she merely grinned. That bright June day, he had painted her as she requested with every line, wrinkle, mole in vivid details, nothing hid away or played down. Suddenly, she started to move and walk out of the edge of the canvas.
    He rubbed his eyes but the stool remained empty. Something shifted in the painting on the right. He walked toward it. A figure was sitting in one of the chairs. A thin arm waved. She was familiar and yet, he didn't want to think who she reminded him of. She seemed to be sipping a drink but the light was behind her keeping her face in the shadows but her movement, the way she shifted her head and moved her arms was familiar.
    He shook his head. No one was moving in the painting. It was all in his mind. He was dreaming. But he glanced at the other painting - the stool was empty. No, he must be dreaming. He sat down and closed his eyes.

~ A month later ~

"Everything here is negotiable," said real estate agent Miss Kent. She glanced around the space again. The previous tenant had passed away in his sleep. The tenant's sister had wanted the place sold as quick as possible. No need to do the arithmetics, the place was going for a lot of money even at the lowest offer. Getting the place sold before the holiday was gravy to Miss Kent's busy month.
    The would-be tenant, Mr. Noon, was eyeing the pair of paintings on the wall. "What odd paintings. I don't want them." One was of a painting of a paint-stained empty stool and the other was of a dark and empty street cafe. Why were these two paintings here when there wasn't a single photograph or artwork elsewhere in the entire apartment? If Miss Kent had been the original agent, she would have known why.
    "No problem, Mr. Noon. They can be removed before you move in." Miss Kent smiled. This would have been an easy sell ten years ago when the apartment wasn't surrounded by skyscrapers and every floor had a fantastic city view. The painting on the right... She glanced at it again. Was there a man and woman sitting there in the dark drinking coffee? Mr. Noon asked another question. She drew her attention back to him.
    Before Miss Kent locked up, she glanced at the painting again. The shadows seemed to have shifted and all the chairs were empty. It must have been her imagination. She headed for the door but paused when she caught the moon out the windows - it looked like a small child among the skyscrapers but then it was gone when she blinked.