A Chromatic Palate

The taste of the color blue. It wasn't a sweet taste, never that. Nor sour, not exactly. It was more like the cold, hard tang of old steel, left out in the rain too long, then brought inside to slowly rust. Frank knew it well, a persistent whisper on the back of his tongue, especially when the highway stretched out before him, a black ribbon swallowed by a night so deep it felt like an ocean. The truck, his old Freightliner, rumbled beneath him, a familiar beast, its cabin smelling of stale coffee, diesel, and thirty years of his own sweat.

He’d been driving since before the last stars winked out, from a depot near Scranton, heading west. Long haul. Another one. Always another one. His eyes, heavy-lidded, scanned the road, the occasional flash of high beams from an oncoming rig, a brief, blinding assertion of another human soul hurtling through the dark. He’d nod, or not. Didn’t matter much. The radio played low, static-laced country from a station he’d picked up somewhere near Cleveland, a woman singing about a lost love, her voice like gravel and bourbon. Frank didn’t listen to the words, just the hum, another layer to the monotonous thrum of his life.

The blue taste, it wasn't always there, not acutely. It came with certain triggers. The empty passenger seat, for instance. For years, Mary had ridden there, snoring softly sometimes, or humming along to his tunes. Her laugh, a sharp, bright thing, could cut through any gloom. Now, just a worn denim jacket slung over the back, a ghost of her presence. Or the way the dawn light, when it finally broke, washed the world in shades of cold grey and bruised purple, before the real yellow came through. That was a blue taste, for sure. The cold, unyielding promise of another day that felt exactly like the last.

He pulled into a truck stop somewhere in Indiana, the kind with flickering fluorescent lights and a diner that smelled of grease and desperation. A few rigs idled, exhaling white plumes into the chill morning air. Inside, the usual faces: other drivers, men with tired eyes and permanent creases in their foreheads, nursing mugs of black coffee. Frank found a booth in the back, away from the chatter. Ordered a short stack and more coffee. The waitress, a plump woman named Brenda judging by her nametag, slapped the menu down, not even looking at him. Just another face, another order.

He watched the steam curl from his cup. The coffee was weak, bitter, and tasted… blue. Yeah, that blue again. Like a memory you couldn't quite grasp, a shape on the edge of your vision that vanished when you turned to face it. It had been like this since Mary left, then since the kids stopped calling, just texts now and then, sparse words. He tried to remember the last time he’d felt truly warm, truly full. Not just fed, but full. It felt like a lifetime ago. A different color, maybe. A vibrant red, or a sunny yellow. Those were gone now, leaving only this metallic, lingering chill.

His pancakes arrived, drowning in syrup. He ate them without much thought, the sweetness just a brief interruption to the pervasive blue. He paid, leaving a couple of crumpled bills, and walked back out into the morning. The sky was a pale, watery blue now, like a faded denim shirt. The air was sharper, carrying the scent of exhaust and damp asphalt. He climbed back into the cab, the seat groaning under his weight, the engine coughing to life.

He put the truck in gear, the familiar grind of it, and pulled out onto the highway. The sun was higher now, a weak, pale orb, but it didn't warm him. He passed fields of dormant corn, skeletal trees against the horizon, small towns huddled against the cold. Each mile rolled under the tires, a slow, grinding erasure of distance. He thought about calling his daughter, just to hear her voice. But what would he say? 'Hey, just checking in. Still driving. Still tasting blue.' She wouldn't get it. Nobody ever did.

Frank reached into the glove compartment, his fingers closing around a worn photograph. It was Mary, younger, smiling, her arm around him. They were on a pier somewhere, a bright summer day, the ocean a startling, vivid azure behind them. Her eyes in the picture, they were blue too, but a different kind. A lively, sparkling blue, like sunlight on water. Not the flat, dull blue that sat on his tongue now. He traced her face with his thumb, then put the picture back, careful not to bend it. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, and pressed the accelerator, pushing the big truck further into the endless, grey-blue horizon.