“What do you mean I have it wrong?” The friend, a tall and lanky man, said with hurt in his eyes. As if to match his distraught expression, his clothes barely hung onto his body, ill fitting and in disarray. He looked the picture of suffering, deep dark circles under his eyes, his thinning hair stuck to his temples.

“I mean exactly that, Francis. You have let your mind get the best of you and now you suffer.”

The painter didn't look Francis in the eyes as he spoke, more preoccupied with tending to a dot that didn’t look quite enough like a dot for his liking.

“But… You called me last night,” Francis persisted with incredulity.

“Yes, and you didn’t answer. And a good thing that was.”

“A good thing?”

“Yes. I’m certain that you would have behaved the same way you do now.”

“You emailed me saying that you needed me more than anything!”

The painter got quiet, and Francis felt he had him now. His friend could no longer deny his feelings in the face of undeniable proof, he had him red handed.

“I’m sorry, old chap. What did you say?” The painter finally raised his eyes to Francis. He had finally achieved dot perfection and was ready for a brief break.

“You wrote to me last night, Allan,” Francis quietly repeated himself, no longer resolved in his knowledge of Allan’s feelings. “And I wrote back, but you never replied,” he mentioned, even quieter.

“Ah, yes. I needed you, as I often do.” A light glinted in Francis’ eyes, but quickly subsides when the painter went on. “You know I need to talk to you about every project I want to do. You bring the muse out like no one else I know, dear friend.”

“That was it?”

“What else could it be?” Allan looked sincerely puzzled.

“I don’t believe this.” Francis ran a thin hand through his black hair and turned away from his friend. He couldn’t bear the sight of him anymore.

“I know you feel the same. I knew it ever since we met,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes.

Allan sighed.

“Francis, not this again. What we might’ve done during university is over and done with. I have never lead you on, my friend. You must give me that at least.”

“I don’t know why you’d renegade your true nature. I don’t know why you’d behave like this towards me. I’ve been nothing but supportive of you, and how you chose to get married. I never left your side.”

Francis finally turned around, trying to find Allan’s eyes, to convey his hurt. His friend’s face was pale, his eyes watery.

“Is that why you remained my friend all these years? For hopes we’d be together one day? There was nothing true of our friendship then?” As he spoke, Allan steadied himself with a hand on his sturdy wooden table, stained with paint over the years, shiny from the wear.

Francis felt a pang of guilt for his words. He had done what he had strived to avoid all his life; he had hurt Allan so badly, that his friend was physically unwell.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it this way. I am your friend. I will always be your friend, but you have to see my side as well. I have loved you for years, Allan.”

As he bared his soul before the love of his life, Francis noticed the door open slightly. Allan’s wife smiled and mouthed an “I’ll come back later” and disappeared. A cold sweat sent shivers down his spine. She couldn’t have hear them, could she?

“Francis, I cannot possibly talk about this any longer. I don’t feel too well.”

“I’m sorry, Allan.”

“Could you perhaps get me the olive oil from the cupboard?”

“Oh, certainly.”

Feeling even worse, Francis hurried to the cupboard. He had caused an even bigger hurt than he’d previously thought. Allan resorted to what he believed to be the healing power of drinking olive oil only when he was seriously ill.

“The oil isn't here, Allan. I can go to the kitchen and bring it for you.”

“No, it’s alright. Whisky will do.”

Francis placed the sparkling crystal bottle on the work table, next to Allan’s favourite glass. It had been used before, it seemed unwashed. He frowned, Allan never drank when he worked.

“Do you want me to clean this for you?” He asked his friend.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give it a swirl. It’s just fruit smoothie.”

Ever so servile, Francis poured a half glass of whisky and waited for Allan to pick it up. When he didn’t reach for it, Francis understood. He had to leave, he was no longer welcome.

He put the bottle back down and stepped away from the table. Clearing his throat, he said:

“I’ll make my leave now, old friend.”

Allan mumbled something in response, as Francis opened the door and stepped out of the turpentine smelling studio, tears welling up in his eyes.