Colorful Words

Last time I told her that it would take only a couple of months longer and then we would be able to move again. That was the last time, but it wasn't the first. And she always answered the same way: I shouldn't be here, she used to say. But that last time she was ironing and she was looking down. That is what sticks in my mind. At first, she used to say that she shouldn't be there with a bit of irony. Then, the words went darker. Words are like colors, you know that, and hers were going darker. I knew it. I could sense it. But I didn't say anything. It would take just a couple of months longer.
Next I can remember is that she stopped ironing. She stared at me. She said:
- Love can't cope with it, and you know it.
- It won't take more than a couple of months, baby. We're doing a great job here.
And she went back. She grabbed the iron and waited for a couple of seconds. Just a couple of seconds longer.
- I hate it here. I hate it here with all my heart.
I knew my words were losing their colour but I said it anyway:
- Just try to adjust to their worldview, sweet.
- Their worldview sucks, and yours sucks as well.
And I could smell the heating of the sheet.
That was the last time. Next morning I woke up early in the morning and slipped away. When I came back in the sunset, nobody was around.
Nobody was in the living room, nobody was in the room. I went to the garage and there she was. But I forgot everything about it. The only thing I can remember was the smell of the ironing and the color of her words. You know that words have colors. They also have hands, and they are seizing my throat, that is all I can say so far.