Henri wanted to steal colors.
She wanted to be able to reach up and pull the exact shade of green that limned the horizon on stormy nights down into a thick coil she could hide in the back yard, or under the shirt in her closet that she never ever wore. She wanted to strip it off every long blade of grass in the field beside the city, stack it up and pack it away. She wanted scrape it off the tree leaves, and rub it out of the moss. She wanted to take it away from every painter, and hide it from every printer, and nick it from every mind’s eye.
If she managed that, she would steal that specific red, that particular blue, that ripe yellow, and that bold gray. Because they too effortlessly reminded her.