The color of roses—the color of love. The color of danger. I didn’t see the danger though. My color red couldn’t be anything dangerous. Blue may have been the color of depth and stability, but red was the color of passion.
I was wearing a red dress the day we met. He had a cherry-colored handkerchief in his suit pocket. The matching colors proved our destiny to be together. We danced the whole night, seeing no one but each other. The respectful gentleman in blue was ignored. We were witty, we were clever. Our words danced along with our bodies and swirled around as gracefully as our feet.
The dance did not end our clever banter. We met the next day. He gave me a brilliant red rose. I tucked it into my hair for the world to see, the blue violets received the day before, forgotten. The next day when we met he gave me two roses, and the third day three. He never stopped his profession of love for me. Ruby roses filled my thoughts.
There was never a dull moment when we were together. We laughed hysterically, fought passionately, and teased mercilessly. My calm, stable blue sea had been replaced by a raging red fire. We made a silly pact to always wear something red; a ribbon, a scarf, a waist coat. It was our way of declaring to the world that we were in love.
There was something missing. Something inside me that was not filled by the fiery whirlwind that we created when we were together. My head filled with a steadfast indigo pond, and steady, meaningful conversation. A voice inside reminded me of the deep closeness my heart had known before that crimson flame came into my life, but I ignored it. We were meant to be together. We both wore red.
The days went by, and people talked. They said that we were the perfect couple, that we would soon be married. My family stanchly rejected that idea, and forbid me to ever see the man in red again. I ignored them and found ways to meet with him as often as I could. I was compelled to see him. My clear, tranquil blue sky turned red.
Red became our symbol. He would leave his crimson handkerchief on the door knob of a room he was in at a party. I set out a bouquet of scarlet roses in the window when my parents were away. Red meant we could see each other for a few stolen minutes. Neither one of us stopped wearing the color. As long as it was on our person, we were still in love.
The game was daring and exciting, but there was still something inside of me that longed for something else. The conversations held were witty and charming, but lacked true connection. They were red—full of emotion, full of fire. Full of warning. Where was the blue filled with trust, loyalty, and wisdom?
A pale blue envelope arrived announcing a wedding. Not the wedding of the passionate red lovers, but of another. My steady, loyal friend, whom I had shared a deep trust and closeness that I shared with no other, was to be married to another. How blind I had been by the consuming wall of scarlet fire that I neglected to notice just how deeply I longed for that steady blue sea that called out to me.
Was love red, filled with passion and emotion—or was love blue, filled with trust and understanding? I discovered too late that real love wasn’t secret escapades and swirling emotions, but quiet trust and steadfast loyalty. I was distracted for a moment by a flash of red, and missed the whole heavens filled with quiet, reassuring blue.
I saw a red handkerchief hanging on a door knob. I walked by without pausing. I took the apple-colored ribbon from my hair and let it fall to the floor. I was no longer wearing red.
So, this is the group of words responsible for Red, Blue, White, and Black. I wrote this a few years ago and left it sitting in a word document somewhere. When I rediscovered it, I though I was just going to edit it a little and than put it on my blog. But stories have a mind of their own, and before I knew it, I had a whole series of stories from “editing” this little piece.
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