Red Umbrella
She could have put on the red suit, color of vamp-lips and cherries dripping with syrup, and been done with it. It would have been a fabulous cloak of color with which to greet the day. She could have picked a different bag, a brown one, say—sensible, sturdy. She could have braved the sun bare-headed, or picked an ordinary black umbrella, or even a red one without a fringe so sassy. She didn’t have to be so bold, so cardinal.
But that’s not all. Far from it. You can’t tell from where you’re standing, of course, but guess—oh, go on, guess—what color my lips blushed after I kissed her hello today?
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