Alfredo And Nikita | Romeo 39-s Blue Skies
“I remember blue,” he said. “Tasted like salt. Like the sea before everything.”
The air was bitter, metallic. But he breathed deep anyway.
Nikita barked once — her agreement noise — and padded over to Romeo, leaning her weight against his leg. She was the color of clouds before a storm. The only white thing left in the district.
“Romeo,” Alfredo said, not looking up from his onions. “You paint another sky, the whole wall will float away.” romeo 39-s blue skies alfredo and nikita
Alfredo was a retired chef with shaky hands and a steady heart. He’d lost his sense of taste to the same rain that stole the sun, but he still cooked. Every evening, he stirred pots of ghost-sauces and phantom-stews, and Nikita — his giant, fluffy Samoyed — sat at his feet, thumping her tail against the cracked linoleum.
Romeo hadn’t seen a clear sky in three years. Not since the chemical rains started scrubbing the atmosphere clean of color, leaving everything a jaundiced yellow-gray. But sometimes, when the wind shifted and the old filters in his mask worked just right, he could imagine blue. That deep, endless blue of his childhood — the one his grandmother called “God’s own ink.”
He painted those skies on the only canvas left: the wall of Alfredo’s kitchen. “I remember blue,” he said
“There,” Romeo whispered. “Romeo’s blue skies.”
And somewhere, Nikita wagged her tail like a promise.
Nikita lifted her head and howled softly — not in sadness, but in song. A long, low note that seemed to reach up through the crumbling ceiling and into the nowhere above. But he breathed deep anyway
That night, the sirens didn’t wail. No evacuation order. No drones. Just the three of them: Alfredo humming an old aria, Nikita snoring like a busted radiator, and Romeo brushing the last stroke of cerulean across the plaster.
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Romeo smiled under his respirator. “Then you’ll have a window.”
