[Scene opens in a chic-but-slightly-disheveled living room. Jen and Rob stand in front of the painting, both holding overpriced coffee and passive-aggressive tension.]

JEN:
Oh my god, this painting is giving me anxiety. Like… what is it? A dragon? A worm? The inside of my brain during family dinners?

ROB:
Obviously it’s abstract. You’re not supposed to get it.

JEN:
No, Rob, you’re not supposed to pretend you get it when you actually don’t.

ROB:
I literally said it was abstract. That’s the whole point. Not everything has to make sense, Jen.

JEN:
Says the guy who once thought Banksy was a skincare brand.

ROB:
I was drunk and we were at Sephora! Let it go.

[Jen squints at the painting, stepping closer.]

JEN:
Wait. Is that a heart? Like, right there? And what’s that—some kind of angry animal?

ROB:
Looks more like a flaming taco to me.

JEN:
Flaming taco? You have the imagination of drywall. That is definitely a fox. A fox with baggage.

ROB:
You’re projecting.

JEN:
No, I’m observing. There’s a spiral of doom on the right side and a bunch of broken arrows pointing nowhere. This whole thing is just… chaos.

ROB:
Wow. That sounds familiar. Like… you describing our last vacation.

JEN:
Oh please, you’re the one who got us lost in the desert because you “don’t trust Google Maps.”

ROB:
I still don’t. It took us through a truck stop rave.

JEN:
Yeah. And somehow that’s still the most romantic thing we’ve done in two years.

[Silence. They both stare at the painting.]

ROB:
…You think this is about us?

JEN:
Honestly? It kinda feels like it.
The swirl, the sharp turns, the passive-aggressive triangle shapes…

ROB:
The fox with baggage?

JEN:
Exactly.

[They both take a sip of coffee, still staring.]

ROB:
So what, the artist just followed us around with a paintbrush?

JEN:
Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to document our dysfunction. My cousin wrote a poem about our breakup that we didn’t go through.

ROB:
Well… I guess if we’re going to be immortalized in art, at least it’s colorful.

JEN:
And loud. Don’t forget loud.

ROB:
…You want to go to that taco place from last week?

JEN:
Only if you let Google get us there.

[They walk off. The painting stays silent, smug, and entirely too accurate.]

Sometimes the art isn’t just about you — it is you.
And in that chaos, there’s something weirdly comforting: at least you’re not alone in the mess.

N Mokashi
MokashiArt.com