I’m always searching what to write about on Saturday now that I’ve gone through my series of completed songs. Through one of my newest followers’ blog, I found the 500 Club; two prompts a week to write a short story of 500 words. This week I chose the prompt that required me to start the story by “[Character] never liked the color red.”
I never liked the color red. I wouldn’t even poke it with a stick. So when the saleswoman asked me to smear a stick of it on my lips, I never thought red would change my life.
I planned to buy pants. One precision strike at the mall; enter, grab, try, like, pay, leave. Why I stopped by the tiny stand in the gigantic hallway is beyond me. I don’t know what invisible super strength duct tape she used but the petite Southern Belle managed to virtually strap my bottom on her make-up station’s chair.
I cringed when she approached me with a ruby red lipstick but suprisingly did not run for my life. I shut my eyes while she applied the greasy substance on my reluctantly parted lips. I never liked lipstick either.
“Open up!” She urged with a soft yet admonishing voice.
Treating me like a five year-old irked me and I motioned to wipe the color off with the back of my hand. In a show of unexpected fierceness, the make-up dealer – I swear, the damn thing should be illegal – grabbed my arm before it reached my lips.
“You’ll like it.” She insisted.
I didn’t doubt she would pin me to her chair until I agreed to look. Contemplating my face covered with red wasn’t the least bit appealing but wearing the thing for hours while I starved at a stupid stand in the middle of the mall didn’t sound any better. I promised myself to analyze the result with detachment and, with a resignation-heavy sigh, I glanced at the mirror.
The first thing I noticed was how medium-length brown curls danced off the red. The color drew unsuspected warmth straight out of the hair, stating loud and clear that the person sporting that do was cuddle-by-the-hearth-worthy.
I could definitely roll with that.
The passionate violence of scarlet opposed the colder colors nicely. I swear I have never seen baby blues look like that. The effect impressed me so much my jaw dropped while I got lost in the round perfection of irises. Pupils never were as well accompanied.
Combined with the light tan, the fiery color smelled like an everlasting summer on the beach. The pigment depicted tender scenes that didn’t contain any red but shared the same dynamic energy. Picnic, laughter and all.
The color I used to hate called the full curve of the lips and the high cheekbones made the ensemble sexier.
“See? Perfect!” The saleswoman cooed me back to reality.
“It’s probably not my place,” intervened the stud in the red shirt who stared back at me, thanks to the mirror, “but I really don’t think it’s your color.”
I finally focused on what I should have been looking at from the get-go; my face. Disgust shivered down my spine. I wiped the insult off my skin.
“Definitely not,” I replied through the tissue, “but it is yours.”
The man and I laughed then left the stand to grab coffee.