Red.
Red.
Red.
It wasn’t just his nickname for her, the name he used to call out in the middle of the hallway and watch her turn around to face him, a smile spreading across her face as she recognized his voice. It wasn’t the color of her cheeks when she blushed the first time he asked her out. Nor was it the color of his exhausted pupils, which he had acquired from spending his nights staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
It was the color of her hair. Her beautiful, glossy fiery red curls that fell down her back flawlessly. The very red curls that she had spent most of her childhood begging her mother to dye to a more “normal” shade. The very red curls that he would run his hands through when he used to kiss her spontaneously, in the middle of the hall, or in the pouring rain, or in his room, on his bed, pushing the kiss deeper and deeper.
And it was also the color of the shirt his best friend had been wearing at the party. The red shirt had been nothing special to him, just another t-shirt, and he hadn’t paid it any attention. Until, that is, he walked into what he thought was a deserted bathroom, to see the red shirt lying on the floor, surrounded by red plastic cups that had previously held various alcoholic drinks, and his best friend pulling her closer to him in a horribly smutty embrace, one hand all over her body and the other tangled in her messy yet still beautiful red curls.
He was currently staring at that same red shirt and those same red curls, seated five tables away from the new couple. He stared so hard he wondered if he could will her with his mind to turn around and see him. Just to see him, and maybe she would remember everything before he happened, all those years, all those kisses.
The couple abruptly stood up. He watched as his former best friend helped her into her jacket before courteously offering her his arm as they walked to the door. He stood up, too, and followed, not entirely sure what he was doing but doing it anyway. He just had to say something, anything to her. He felt this intense panicked feeling that if she left, right then with him, she would be gone to him forever. This fear caused him to hurry through the useless restaurant, unintentionally bumping into a waiter as he went past.
Then he was outside. He hugged his arms around himself as he shivered in his flimsy t-shirt. And then he turned around, searching for a glimpse of those red curls in the dark.
Wait. There. He was opening her the door to his car, and she was smiling at him with complete adoration. His voice caught in his throat as he watched, and he felt frozen. He watched them drive off together.
He was completely alone.
It wasn’t just his nickname for her, the name he used to call out in the middle of the hallway and watch her turn around to face him, a smile spreading across her face as she recognized his voice. It wasn’t the color of her cheeks when she blushed the first time he asked her out. Nor was it the color of his exhausted pupils, which he had acquired from spending his nights staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
It was the color of her hair. Her beautiful, glossy fiery red curls that fell down her back flawlessly. The very red curls that she had spent most of her childhood begging her mother to dye to a more “normal” shade. The very red curls that he would run his hands through when he used to kiss her spontaneously, in the middle of the hall, or in the pouring rain, or in his room, on his bed, pushing the kiss deeper and deeper.
And it was also the color of the shirt his best friend had been wearing at the party. The red shirt had been nothing special to him, just another t-shirt, and he hadn’t paid it any attention. Until, that is, he walked into what he thought was a deserted bathroom, to see the red shirt lying on the floor, surrounded by red plastic cups that had previously held various alcoholic drinks, and his best friend pulling her closer to him in a horribly smutty embrace, one hand all over her body and the other tangled in her messy yet still beautiful red curls.
He was currently staring at that same red shirt and those same red curls, seated five tables away from the new couple. He stared so hard he wondered if he could will her with his mind to turn around and see him. Just to see him, and maybe she would remember everything before he happened, all those years, all those kisses.
The couple abruptly stood up. He watched as his former best friend helped her into her jacket before courteously offering her his arm as they walked to the door. He stood up, too, and followed, not entirely sure what he was doing but doing it anyway. He just had to say something, anything to her. He felt this intense panicked feeling that if she left, right then with him, she would be gone to him forever. This fear caused him to hurry through the useless restaurant, unintentionally bumping into a waiter as he went past.
Then he was outside. He hugged his arms around himself as he shivered in his flimsy t-shirt. And then he turned around, searching for a glimpse of those red curls in the dark.
Wait. There. He was opening her the door to his car, and she was smiling at him with complete adoration. His voice caught in his throat as he watched, and he felt frozen. He watched them drive off together.
He was completely alone.
♠ ♠ ♠
Feedback would be appreciated = ]xx Hannah