She Was Once Happy and Red as a Lobster
In the weeks leading up to this, the red and green flashing lights greeted me nightly. Next, I’d notice my wife, Rose. She’d meet me at the door— her smile was red, it meant love.
But she wasn’t there to greet me this time. Instead there was a letter on top of my moth-eaten suitcase. The door was locked, I wasn’t welcome inside. A shade of crimson ink scribblings meant I was in trouble. I had messed up again.
I opened the creased, thrice-folded letter, and it read:
‘Head to the hotel, don’t come in, you’ve broken my heart yet again…’
Guilt swiftly clothed me in a shade of damask taking the place of my beige trench jacket with brass buttons.
As I walked into the room, the metal door noisily shut behind me. It snuffed out the Christmassy music on the other side of it. There was our lamp and chair, the same lamp and chair that had been here since the incipiency. I remember seeing my wife sitting there busily reading her harlequin romance into the wee hours, on our honeymoon. Her idiosyncrasies have always proven themselves memorable.
The white snow quickly melted off my tattered boots. White, it’s for those that are innocent.
Red… I fear it now means finality.
Nostalgia directed me to the bathroom next—I needed to be reminded of one more thing.
The last time we were together here she sat in the fervent water. Her porcelain skin tone quickly turned as red as a lobster… but she played past it. She beamed; her happiness reflected from the water’s surface in all directions, it was rubescent. We were in the genesis of our marriage. Happiness, it was the color red.
I caught my reflection in the Whirlpool’s infinity mirror, a liar displayed in inexhaustible amounts…
The phone’s ringing. It’s Rose.
My face feels florid…is this what unburdening my honesties feels like? I told her last year I’d never again make the mistake and forget our anniversary. But I’ve done it anew.
Red, it’s now the color of bravery.