Sunday, September 11, 2016

2321 : The blood that moves the body

He met her the other day, and she was clearly in grief, in mourning of a loss which was difficult for him to fully experience, vicariously or otherwise.

Giving her a full-bodied deep warm hug, he helped her sit down on the coffee stool. As she settled into the seat, he measured her top to bottom.

"Isn't the choice of dress a little unusual?", he asked. She was wearing a bright red shirt, paired with a brown sequined skirt.

She looked up, her eyes in askance. "I mean, you are going to meet your brother and family soon. Would it not be more appropriate to wear black, white or grey?". He was referring to two things here - the traditionally colors of mourning, and the fact that he implicitly believed that her family was conservative.

She continued staring at him, and then at the coffee which had been placed on the table. She smelt in the beans and took a small delicate sip. Looking away, as if she had never heard that question, she loudly exhaled, almost sighing.

A few moments later, when even he had forgotten that he had asked a question, she said, "It's the color of my silent warning. It's the color of my anger. It's the color of my tears. It's the color of my bleeding heart."