Christopher Thomas
“What is your favorite color?” Cora asked, partially wrapped in twisted sheets.
“I don’t have one.” Christopher Thomas
“Why?” Christopher Thomas
“What’s the point?” Christopher Thomas
“The point of having a favorite?” The wicker-bladed ceiling fan turned slowly above them. “It’s an exercise; it says something about you.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Hmmm. What color is your car?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a car?” Christopher Thomas
“I live in the city.”
Cora nodded to herself, “What color was the bicycle you had when you were ten years old?” Christopher Thomas
“I don’t remember. It was a dirt bike. I remember it had knobby tires and fat plastic pedals. I don’t remember what color it was.”
“Okay, watch me.” Neither moved. “My favorite color is blue. But not just blue, and not navy or royal or cerulean–I actually don’t like cerulean, and I bet fewer people would if it weren’t so beautifully named–my favorite color is Majorelle blue,” she drew out ‘Majorelle’ in a practiced French accent. “I was in Marrakesh and I was falling in love and I was sitting in the shade of a bougainvillea in a proper garden surrounded by Majorelle blue walls, bright and shining in the afternoon sun… radiant.”
“That’s nice.”
“That’s how it’s done.”
“Got it.”
Cora could feel the thin sheen of sweat evaporating off of her under the slight breeze from the fan. She thought about the garden in Marrakesh and the boy she briefly loved, and she remembered fearing that she would never feel that way again. Then, without warning, tears welled in her upturned eyes, pooled to the point of spilling over, and then streamed down either side of her face onto the already damp sheets.
“Ochre.”
Cora took a deep breath, “Ochre?”
“Yes, I think I like ochre.”
Cora nodded to herself, “Ochre is nice.”
Very nice!