The Color of Roses

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 My calm, stable blue sea had been replaced by a raging red fire.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.

Click to read



4 thoughts on “The Color of Roses

  1. I like this . Honesty want to read more. I feel like the red and the blue need to be together not just as one. See the blue man didn’t have the passion that you seeked. But he gave you a loving stable environment.But the red man wasn’t stable and was trouble. But he gave you the passion you craved. I believe you need both colors for true love. But blue is more important because passion comes and goes. Love is red and blue. You are a amazing writer

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I like your take on this piece. It does take more than just passion to have true love, but passion is good to have in addition to stability. That being said, it is important to have the stability to hang on to the relationship in times when passion isn’t there. You’re right; It takes red and blue.
      I do have more pieces that revolve around this red/blue theme, though I took them in a slightly different direction.
      Here is the link to one if you want to check it out
      Thanks for the complement!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Awww! This one was sad, but needed. She learned a very important lesson. I think this character learned lessons in all the other ones too, but she had to learn them the hard way when she was in extremely vulnerable states at the end of her rope. But this one, it’s like she kinda knew all along, but didn’t quite know what it was she knew…if that makes sense lol. And then when she got the invitation to the wedding, that was her “ah ha” moment, but it was too late of course. Hopefully she’ll meet another man in blue 🙂


    1. It is sad! I think that’s why I wrote all the other ones with happier endings. I didn’t want them all to be sad.
      And yeah, that makes sense. 🙂 She kind of had a feeling that something wasn’t right, but didn’t know, or didn’t want to admit to herself what it was.

      Liked by 1 person

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