Lincoln green Monday

“Is there something else in there?” she asked.

There was a time when Rose thought of her daily life as a piece of paper she has to put colours on…so she did. She painted her life in red almost every Tuesday, Thursdays were for green and sometimes orange, she loved to watch the sun go down really really fast, Sunday was just another blue day, normal skies, no clouds to poke, no super birds to call by names, Fridays were for black, sometimes black is not enough to make everyone believe you’re more than just a dot, on Wednesdays she wore something between pink and velvet, she couldn’t really decide which one was more than the other, Saturday was not at all as white as everybody thought, underneath she had always hidden some dots of atomic tangerine and Mondays were something else. For Mondays she have made a lifetime list, what colour she would wear for each week of her life (she calculated she will live till 100, just to make sure), wrote them on small pieces of papers, folded as to hide a big secret, putted them in a fishbowl and picked one every Monday morning. That, my dear curious fellows, was not because she wanted to look predictable, but because there was nothing more exciting than to read something you wrote in advance and not to remember what was it exactly. So on her Monday’s list you could find all sort of colours, of which one could not even think of: android green, american rose, antique fuchsia, battleship grey, banana mania, brick red, bubble gum, Lincoln green, denim, dollar bill, granny Smith apple, international orange, light salmon pink, mordant red 19, neon carrot and much more…and all of this, even if you may not believe it, are real colours. They looked on her fantastically fit. No one would ever suspect that there was actually someone on the Lincoln if she decided to take a sunbathe on the top of her father’s Lincoln. It was not at all her favourite place, but she loved to be on a completely different hight level than others. Some would lay on benches, some on the ground, some in some bed, some in someone else’s bed, someone on a high building…but only her father owned a Lincoln, at it was great.

Today was her birthday. She was not alone and yet, the trees outside seemed to call her for a chat. Those old bastards are never getting tired of colourful conversations. It was Sunday and Rose was as blue as an endless sky with no clouds. The table was full of blue plates, on which you could see the marks of fingers that wanted to make sure there won’t be any blue cake left, a lot of dirty blue glasses, 100 broken blue candles and you could hear from the other room, as if from far away in the woods, some sounds of melancholic music, blues.

“No, there is nothing left. The bowl is empty.” he answered.
She smiled.