Colours

Featherly the glasses rested upon her fringe. She knew she would still feel the indent of them upon the sides of her head though, for sometime after they were gone. “One pound”, the watchful shop keeper had grunted. She had to have them. The confectionary that had accompanied them, however, was inedible, fossilised, tasteless (she imagined) and sunk further into it’s death swiftly after purchase. The glasses had an air of 80’s cheese about them and an all too familiar ‘scene’ feel that reminded her of home, of London. Although she was not ‘scene’, despite her best efforts (and her “pretty indie” polka dot top Paul had once remarked, regardless of ever seeing it). She enjoyed who she became with them.

This was her last day and she was glad. Darkened by the lenses, her room still felt white. White everywhere. Everywhere white. Not even grey, grey that should form once black and white merged. A whole year of white. There had been some grey bits and even some black. Today was pretty grey with regards to deviation. She could see why people turned to narcotics or alcoholism in times of white. Why people turned to any overindulgence for that matter. Sex, for instance she’d never understood up to this point could be something “to do”. No sex was for people in love or (on the end of the spectrum), people who were intoxicated and rubbed up, on and well, into other drunkards. Today though was not grey because of sex. It could well have been and honestly the thought had crossed her mind once or thrice. The grey stemmed from good old nicotine. “Smoking? In 2008? Really?” Bob often joked. Old enough to smoke but not accustomed, the whole act felt overcast. This tremendously matched the mood of Sunday, this particular Sunday too. Watching the rain come down an impatient urge for smoking awakened in her. So, she smoked. She felt awful and sick. But she smoked and smoked. Lucky Strike she wanted, they always looked so cool. Nothing or should that be anything? (She never knew and no longer had Paul to ask), was cool about smoking. Not when it came to herself. If she stuck with it, persisted, dedicated, herself to the art of smoking maybe she could be cool. She could be grey. However silver, Silk Cut Silver, was as close to grey as she got.

Staying grey or maybe beige or cream was not an option. Soon, at “home”, grey would not do as grey clandestinely inhabited it already. This being the reason for whites return. White allowed itself to become a new colour altogether. White could pick from itself it’s colour. At home, white became orange or purple or even green (occasionally). She was not glad it was her last day after all.

Black was the boss. Black made a white week, day or month into something memorable. Black sucked in white, black stole the spectrum. Black tainted and teased her white year twice. First time had been with Damien. Damien was gorgeous in all aspects, but of course Damien wanted what everyone wanted, darkness. To her surprise she’d given him it or maybe he’d inspired it within her. Damien did not seem capable of black and maybe it wasn’t quite black. But she did her best. In fact it wasn’t black, and that is why he’d ended it. It was to her though. The second appearance was Andy. Meeting in an environment of black. The club she found herself in was the epitome of a sleazy accident, a one-night-stand, something its inhabitants doubtless became. However, she herself was not one. It was the events, the “second date”, which became black. Bob told her not go, out of jealousy no doubt (for he loved her, he loved her white and only he could and should turn her black), but slightly for her own good. White had suffocated her too long and the temptation and promise of this she succumbed to. Intoxicated when she met Andy she knew he’d already begun to merge her white. After some grey dealings in a grey boozer, black overtook. She knew it was black as she pushed herself further into black than ever before. So far that she fainted that night and saw nothing but black. It’s been several days since and blacks looming over like a pregnant rain cloud about to burst. Soon it will be aborted with the return of home. For now anyway as a life without black is no life.

London, home is soon. The grey at home is not the grey she likes. The grey is okay, knowing grey is still around is reassuring. Grey is not a gloomy colour. Colours that are gloomy are pastel colours or wishy-washy hues that stand for nothing. She herself stands for nothing but this is essentially why the grey excites her. Paul, now he stands for something despite trying not to. She’d had real hopes of turning a different shade with Paul. But that’d, “all gone to shit”, Paul had mirrored in her exact words that day. No, Paul is the colour she wants to be.

Men want to be her colour. Danny wants to be her colour. Nobody wants someone to match, to show them up at a party in the same shade. He wants to do this. He the moth and herself the brilliant white flame. Danny especially enjoys the white. To him the white is what it’s really about. A good girl. Not the virgin, for he’s too grey for that and that would not do. Still he’d do it.