White was only for the girls in their prim blue gowns and shiny pearl necklaces. There may have been a time when I coveted their cobalt cloth and the pearls that signaled their purity, but I knew my color.
Blue cloth filed passed me with quickened steps, careful not to look at the brazen red creature on the other side of the street. Some brave souls turned their eyes to my ruby lips, reddened cheeks, and burning red dress. Their faces filled with revulsion. I looked haughtily back at them, but inside I was disgraced. The color of violence, the color of lust: that was my color.
The man’s white waistcoat sharply contrasted against his midnight blue suit, but it wasn’t what he was wearing that made me notice him. It was that he was on my side of the street. No one who wore blue walked on this side. This corner was claimed by red.
I waited for his haughty look as all the other wearers of blue gave me, but it didn’t come. Instead, his sapphire eyes were filled with something I couldn’t describe. It made me vulnerable.
The man in the white waistcoat came again the next day. He tried to talk to me but my sharp tones and cold looks soon ended his attempt. Blue was not to be trusted, and white was a reminder of all I’d lost. Red had no place with either color.
I thought I’d never see him again, but I saw his piercing blue gaze every day. He was immune to my briskness and the looks the other wearers of blue gave him. Slowly, my guard came down and the color of sapphires crept into my heart.
A white rose was in his hand. He held it out to me. Crimson anger surged through me. How dare he remind me of what I wasn’t. He told me it didn’t matter to him how much red I wore. To him, I was worthy of white. I threw the rose into the dusty street. White was purity I didn’t have. White was a stab of pain.
Thoughts of a dark blue suit filled my mind as I reddened my lips for the night. The snow colored rose burned in my mind as hands groped where they shouldn’t. Red was passion that deadened my heart. White was hope.
Rain soaked my scarlet dress as I ran down the streets. I ignored the looks of disgust on the faces of the blue wearing men and pearl wearing women. Red was killing me. Only blue could save me. Only white could make me worthy of love.
I stood frozen before the large sky blue house. It wasn’t the muddied hem of my dress or the wet hair that hung in my face that stopped me from going in. It was the color I wore and all it represented that halted my steps. I was red. I was shame.
The door opened and the man in the white waistcoat came out. He rushed into the rain and wrapped me in his arms. Then he placed a white rose in my hair. He wanted us to be together forever. I asked him how he could love a wearer of red.
He told me that in his eyes, I’d always worn white.
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