One of a child’s favorite questions to ask is “What’s your favorite color?”. When I first met her it was one of the very first questions she asked me. I thought what a childish and peculiar thing to ask. She told me her favorite was red. I simply smiled dumbly at the beautiful but childish lady. She had to at least be about 21, my age, and when you’re an adult colors don’t matter, do they?
A week later we met at the small diner in town where I had asked her out. Not only was her beauty mesmerizing but her excited, deep, and silky red words she spoke were amazing. Thoughts of her flooded through my mind like an infestation. I saw her at least three times a week and when I wasn't with her I longed to hear amazing tales spill from her full, red lips. Red trailed behind her graceful and elegant strides and red was the color of her personality. The nights we shared were as passionate as the color itself. Once I told her she smelt good and she told me the perfume was the smell of red, exciting and fresh but soft and soothing. I laughed it off.
Now, here I stood over her with panic suffocating the air around me. Red hot anger tore at my heart and burned in my eyes. I shouted at her, impatiently waiting for her eyes to flicker open and show the pools of red happy joy they had always seemed to hold. All the red stained memories of her crowded in on me. It was infuriating. The color itself seemed to have betray her. Her red blood slowly trickled from her pale body as the red fire consumed the flipped cars. Now I realize that the colors did matter and that I had been the childish one all along. I sat, tears sliding down my face, noticing how the red in my life seemed to be quickly fading away.
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