Ogre Orange

October 22nd

18.32 – 18.42

The trouble was, he was less that half way there before he forgot what he was going for. As usual. He was Always forgetting things, these days.
The doctor had told him this might be the case, and he’d written it down, to help him remember. That was irony, he was aware of that: the fact that he had to write something down that told him he was going to forget things in order to remember that the doctor had told him that he was going to forget things.
Alanis Whatsername. She could have used that.
He tried to remember the tune as he walked along the high street, but he couldn’t remember that as well as the things his daughter had asked him to get.
An artist.
That wasn’t one of the things his daughter had asked him to get. That would be stupid, he thought. Who would get an artist. But he was going to the art shop for her, which, he supposed, would be where you would be most likely to be able to buy an artist, if indeed that was what you were going to buy.
But he wasn’t going to buy an artist.
His daughter was painting, in his living room. She did that a lot these days, he thought, or it seemed to him like she did, although he wasn’t really sure how much she did it. But he knew that she was there now, painting. She liked to paint and talk to him, with some music in the background, stuff they both liked, and not that nonsense by Whatsername Morissette.
Two things.
He was more than capable or remembering two things, he told her, as he put on his coat and headed out. The walk would do him good. But now here he was, outside the art shop, and he only had shadows of the two things, blurring around the edges. He tried to drag them up as he walked in. Something for a Sunset.
“Yes, sir. How can I help?”
The man behind the counter was polite, Pleasant. He might have seen him before, he thought, but he wasn’t really sure. He stood at the counter, dredging.
“Ogre. Orange.”
He didn’t know where the words came from, and he half knew they weren’t right, but they were half-familiar, like the man’s face.
The man behind the counter smiled, a sad smile, but a warm one all the same. He handed over a small package.
“Red ochre. Orange. These are the paints she wanted. Your daughter phoned ahead. Emily phoned.”