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Scenes from a Marriage: A Month Of Sundays

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--green; it needs more green in the--

“Here,” Bucky said.

"Yeah." Steve nodded slowly. --black. More green in the--  “Okay," and he looked down and saw that he was holding, not his palette, but a white plate with a sandwich on it. There was a smear of green on its edge, where Steve had grasped it with his thumb.

“Tuna fish sandwich,” Bucky said implacably. “Glass of milk.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve said distractedly, looking for a place to set it down.  “In a—"

“You said that two hours ago,” Bucky said.

"I—oh." Steve looked at his watch, being careful not to slide the sandwich off the plate; it didn't seem possible it had been two hours. "Thanks." He dropped his brush in the turps, wiped his hand on his jeans and picked up a triangle of sandwich. "Just I'm losing—"

"The light. I know," Bucky said, "but look, the days are three minutes long now; you've got to deal with it." He gave the painting a long, appraising look; Bucky knew not to talk about work in progress, but his face was a comment in itself.

Steve raised his eyebrows, still chewing his sandwich. "You think it's dark?"

"I didn't say that," Bucky said.

Steve looked at the painting again: it was dark, and the green undertones made it feel sinister, a little; he didn't think he'd meant that. Maybe he had meant it. "What do you think of when you look at it?" Steve asked finally.

Bucky didn't say anything for a moment. "You're asking?"

Steve thought about it for a moment, then said, "Yeah."

Bucky took another hard look at the painting; Steve watched as his eyes moved across it, narrowed, unfocused. Bucky had a damn good pair of eyes.

"Schwarzwald," Bucky said finally, with a shrug of his metal shoulder.

"Yeah," Steve said. "I guess," and then, sighing a little: "The days are only three minutes long now," and Bucky replied, with soft sympathy: "Yeah, pal. I know."