Golden flakes fall from blue blue sky to blackly shining bowl, glisten in sparkling milk. Too pretty to eat; I shall paint my breakfast.

Still life: breakfast on porch with sunshine and easel.

"Eat your breakfast, Michael," she says, my wife. "It's getting soggy, you know." Words, chanting words, dancing, prancing gloriously simple glancing words. She stands in the door, hands on hips, hips under hands.

I shrug an elaborate, elegant, eloquent shrug, palms up and up. No comprehend the words, my dear; I'm painting. Draw me a question! Your lines will dance, and I'll paint you an answer.

Her head shakes: brown curls fly through air and bounce on shoulders. Yes! Curled lines, these, and dancing! Her red lips part and smile with teeth. I must paint her next, lips and hips and tips of toes; curve out, curl in; paint the lines of my wife for life.

"All right, Michael. You're busy; I won't bother you. See you at lunch, okay? Love you."

I smile, she smiles, her painting will smile, too. Lips to hips and tips of toes. She goes, but I remember, and I'll paint her as she stood.

Now back to painting breakfast. A day for the right brain, not a day to waste! Colors will sing to me, today, to me today; right brain, light brain, bright brain, and colors will sing today.

Still life: brain on porch with sunshine and easel.

"I'm leaving," the brain says. This, I understand.

Gray-white, moist, folded lump of tissue, it pulses. "I have a job," it says. "I have to leave now." From the table it slides, glides to the door and out.

"Wait," I call. It does not pause, and then it's gone.

Paint can wait. I follow.

On green by the street, on gray by the grass, my brain sits. A half-brain, a lobe, I see now. "You can't leave," I say. "You're mine."

"Michael," it says, "I can leave, and I shall."

A bus arrives, white-on-red with jangling signs; squealing stinking moaning slowing, it stops. My brain jumps to the step, pays its fare and mine. It slides down the aisle to a pair of empty seats, gray, torn, chunks of yellow stuffing flowing out. I follow.

"But why?" I ask. "How will you live, and what will you do?"

"A brain can do more than you think," it says. "I have a job and a place of my own. I'll be all right."

"But why?" I ask again.

"You ignore me," it says. "You paint, and you see, and you paint some more. And you ignore me. You and your right brain, you paint all day, but what you paint doesn't always match what you see. A left-brain could help you there; but no, you ignore me, you keep on painting. 'The perspective is wrong,' I could say, and I could help you fix it. Or, 'Such a tiny vase could never hold all those flowers,' I could say, and you could paint a new vase with a base wide enough that it wouldn't fall over. You won't listen; you don't want to hear me. Well, Michael, it's over. I'm through being ignored."

I look around the bus. People sit. People read. No one else talks to their brain. All their brains are in their heads, where brains ought to be. No one sits beside their brain. No one but me.

Squealing stinking moaning slowing, the bus stops again, and my brain slides off. Once more I follow, into a so-very gray building, gray stone walls, gray stone walk, gray stone people in and out the door. Down a hall to a glass marked, "Sanders & Richey, Accountants." Through door, through lobby, hall, and into office, each gray, gray, and still more gray.

In the office, on the desk, on a sign, my name: "Michael Price, CPA." My brain sits, gray-white, moist, folded lump of pulsing tissue on a slickly gray leather chair. Another chair, and I sit too.

"Miss Fisher," my brain says, "bring the Cassady account package, please."

A gray woman appears, drops a gray folder on my brain's gray desk. I look at my hands; they too are turning gray.

But inside the folder, such wonders! Blue numbers on a grid of yellow, marching to and fro. Fat, sassy eights lead rolling zeros and staggering sevens, with commas nipping all their heels. Fives and sixes tumble thither and hither. A digit quadrille!

"It's not too late," I tell my brain. "I could paint your numbers; I'm not too proud. Red for nine and blue for two; what do you think of that?"

"I think you left your paint tubes open at home," it says. "Why don't you go and check before they dry out?"

On the desk, numbers tire and line up again in prim and too-proper rows. Nothing here for me but gray, so I go.

My left-brain was right; paints, acrylics, dried and ruined. I sit, I sit, I stare at my paints, and I sit.

At the door to the porch, hips under hands, my wife. "Honestly, Michael, such a mess you make!" She shakes her head. Curls bounce, but not an ounce of paint have I. She puts a plate on the table beside my breakfast.

Still life: sandwich on porch with dried paint and soggy cereal.

"Michael, after you clean up your paint, could you please stop by the grocery? We have tickets for the opera tonight, so try to pick up something that's easy to cook."

Words, rushing words and running words, I can hear it in her voice.

I go to the store for paint. Behind the counter, my brain offers me a selection of oils.

"You know, if you're going to run off and leave your paints, you ought to switch from acrylics to oils," it says. "They won't dry out nearly as soon, and you can do more with them, too."

"You're right," I say. "See? I can listen to you. I'll listen to all your suggestions. I'll consider every one, I promise."

"No." Gray-white, moist, folded lump of tissue, it sits on the counter and pulses. "You're only saying that to get me back. It won't work, Michael. It's over."

Home I go to try my paints, heavy on somber blues and browns. A lake in summer, drought-dry; a woods in winter, bare. A sidewalk, gray and smooth, never-ending.

Clitter-clatter, kitchen clutter. My wife is home, cooking. Garlic, smell of garlic, comforting and old-shoe-strong. Onions and butter, too; dinner will be good tonight.

Still life: half-eaten sandwich, soggy cereal, and omelet, on porch with sunset.

"Thanks for picking up some groceries," she says, my wife. With her own plate, she sits and eats. "I didn't know you liked brains."

On a blackly shining plate, on my smoothly polished fork, sliced and coated with egg, it pulses.