The nearest exit is noted, and the lights dim; the curtain opens to a living room in a house filled with too many things. 
He sits in the chair by the window that looks out into the barren nothingness. There is nothing out there for him. The fields are snow-covered. Both up, down, and straight ahead, the blizzard rages silently on. The lights of the city miles away are snuffed out. There is no point in leaving. There is not much left for him inside, but he is stuck. The fireplace is burning. A clock in another room ticks through the walls. 
You sit across from him, near the fire. It crackles and stings his eyes if he stares at it for too long. You are stuck here too, paging through an oversized, coffee table art book with thick glossy pages. This is the third of these books you have looked through in the past hour. The one that now covers your lap is filled with all sorts of abstract expressionist art. You study each page for only a few seconds—there's not much time to be spent on such paintings, unless you're looking too hard—flipping through Rothko’s, Pollock’s, and Kooning’s. He doesn’t care much for these sorts of paintings, but it was 50-cents at an estate sale, and he had space to fill. You seem to like it, though. 
He has a book of his own open in his lap, but the words haven't made sense in a while. Now, he watches you watch the paintings. He watches you pause, bent wrist hovering in the air about to turn the page, but you hesitate.
“What is it?” his curiosity breaks the silence. There hadn’t been a single word exchanged since the first art book. There was nothing to talk about. You look up startled, but then looking back down, you turn the book around showing the picture to the audience. You tap your finger lightly on the left page. It was a piece by Rothko.
The shades of color were hazy; the way dusk feels when you're cold and alone in the middle of winter. The snow turns blue, absorbing light and sound. Large fields of color lay out on the page. A dark red was spread over the top. Then, two blocks of blue: the top was bright, the bottom smoky and dark.
“This one’s us,” you say, almost absentmindedly. Like it was a fact of life. Like someone would say “I work in the morning,” or “the bathroom’s down the hall.” 
You’re already turning the book around again, already moving onto the next page. 
You had never said anything like that before, at least not to him. This one’s us. What did you mean? He won’t ask. The moment has already passed. This happens too often with him; He’s never ready to say what he wants until it’s too late. 
But what do you mean? The colors. Do you mean the colors? You would have to be the smoky blue at the bottom. That's how he feels when he looks at you, soft and hazy, but not warm. You were only a promise of warmth. This is the color he dreams in, even when those dreams don’t include you. 
The light blue was there too. It was glowing. The first thing the eyes see when they look at the page. The blue in between. He feels that it has been there for a long time, years even, starting small and growing larger. It wasn't a person, or a place, or anything else other than a chasm. When it first appeared, when it was small, you would reach your hand over it and touch his arm, or his fingers, or his neck. He’d forget the blue was there. 
He was red, the rust. How does the saying go about a red sky and sailors? Depending on the time of day, the red is either a warning or a delight. He’s not sure if the painting is showing dawn or dusk. But then again, it’s not meant to be a painting of anything. Rothko painted three rectangles of color. It’s nothing at all. 
Maybe there was nothing left. 
Maybe it's not you and him, but instead, the colors are a timeline; a map showing the journey. The red is the past, an ambiguous color that doesn't know if it's angry, or passionate, or nostalgic. The light blue is the interlude. A scene between two acts. It’s a reprieve, where the audience can sit comfortably in their unknowing before the end.
Or was this a painting of a tragedy? An old play seen by millions of eyes over hundreds of years. We know the ending, and yet we watch anyway.
The hazy, dark blue is the future, or maybe a dream. The unrealized, unwatched final act.
Too much silence has gone by to ask what you meant. You would know he has been thinking about it all this time, that it has been eating away at him all this time. 
He can’t resist. If he doesn't ask now, he never can.
“What did you mean,” he asks, breaking the silence again, “when you said that the painting was us?” You smile and let out a small huff, finding the question amusing. It’s obvious, isn't it?
“Just the colors,” you say, “you're the dark blue. I'm the red.” 
“Oh,” he nods. He doesn't mention the glowing blue in between, and neither do you. The scene ends as it begins. He turns back to the fields of gray outside, each meaningless shade stacked atop the other.