Days to forget

He mixes the blue acrylic paint with his fingertips until the sunny disposition of the yellow disappears within it.

Back and forth. Clockwise. Counter-clockwise.
Repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.

He blends the two together with his right hand and searches for the mirror with his left. He holds the mirror level to his nose and glances first at the paint, then to his eye. It is puffy and bloodshot. Painfully colorful.

"The color isn't right. I need more black," he mumbles as he reaches for the bottle of black paint and squeezes some on to the artist's pallet.

It will be days until the swelling has gone down. Days before no one notices and asks what happened. Days before he can go on with his life like nothing happened. Days before he can forget that his own student dared throw a fist full of rage into his face. A rage that only a person full of hate can evoke, hate for people who opt to live their life differently.

Years of teaching others to appreciate the beautiful lines and brush strokes of historical art has never lead him down this path. He is a dove among the hawks of the school district. He doesn't hate his student for his actions. He just doesn't understand.