His world was always in the season we call autumn. Brown; the color of falling leaves, the shade of the grass on the lawns. He loved the color, for it reminded him if everything he liked; but then again, what did he adore that was not mingled with a tinge of brown?

He was an old man, just ere the golden age of 80. With slightly impaired hearing but near-perfect eyesight and a body that was well under his years, doctors had told him again and again that he had the potential to live well beyond 90. A mane of strikingly grayish hair, high cheekbones and a short beard on his chin were the most domineering features of his unremarkable face; and rich he was, although he still considered it an insult to hire helpers to aid him through the reminder of his life. A die-hard lover of the luscious fields of the countryside, he had moved there wholeheartedly, away from the hustle and bustle of the main city which he so loathed. After all, he relished the brown.

Totally adored it.

It was the second day of his big move to the outskirts, and a peek into his food stores told him, quite instantly, that more supplies needed to be bought. Before boarding a shuttle bus for the nearest town, which was conveniently situated a mere two kilometers away, he took with him a wallet stuffed with his favorite brown dollar bills. Money was brown, and he enjoyed it that way, for it made him feel more emotionally attached to what he had earned for the past few decades.

With a hiss and a prolonged sigh, the shuttle bus came to a halt beside a shopping centre, or, more precisely, a supermarket. Humming gaily to himself he alighted, immediately snatching from his face a queer brown object that had been unexpectedly and rudely blown into his face.

A leaf. How nice; how he loved brown things.

Upon entering the building he gazed sharply at his shopping list, running an experienced eye through its handwritten contents. He did not believe, or liked, the computer anyway; it never used his favorite color, just an excruciatingly dull black. He on the other hand, could write in any color he chose. How could people live like that? He always asked himself; brown was so pleasant you could almost be dazzled by it.

The first item on his list was vegetables. The list was white, though; he considered white another unobtrusive color besides his favorite. Moving his trolley towards the required section he stared spitefully at the rows upon rows of items which didn't have the color brown on them. Yucks.

Soon he approached his intended area, and with wrinkled hands he ran his fingers affectionately over the stalks of broccoli and the leaves of cabbages. Gently, as if cuddling a baby, he selected a few of the biggest ones and placed them tenderly into his basket. Starting at the numerous crates of vegetables more lovingly than not, he continued on his way.

How he adored vegetables.

Half an hour later the door of the supermarket slid easily open and the man strolled out from the building. He did not have to wait for long, as the shuttle bus, faithfully as ever, pulled up after a mere five minutes. Quite gratefully the old man entered once again into the air-conditioned comfort of the bus, but as the bus wasn't brown, his mind refused to let him do it enthusiastically; brown was his life, and that was all he cared for.

The cityscape gave way to the opulent and picturesque scene of the countryside. With another hiss, a sigh, and finally a chug the bus sped away once more in a cloud of dust, after depositing the man at the nearest stop. Taking his time the man traveled the remainder of the distance on foot, for the bus stop was situated a few hundred meters away from his house. Not bad for the first ever ride since my move, the man thought joyfully, thinking about the painstaking lengths he went to familiarize himself with his immediate surroundings through maps and books; he hated to move his legs unless it was absolutely necessary.

I wonder, the old man continued thinking, why they would place the first bus stop across the road beside my house while situating the next one so far away? At length he arrived at a junction and waited for the traffic light to change, again, to his favorite color. It was noon and he was alone at the junction. Not at all surprising in this case, though; in the city there were people at junctions day and night. But this is the countryside, friend, the old man muttered to himself.

Ah, brown at last, exclaimed the old man's brain, as his eyes tracked the alteration; and he started walking across the road. Really, he though, why do people hate my favorite color so much they never walk when it flashes?

Of course, he had always followed them. He never wanted to feel left out of anything. Now was different; he was alone.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye the man glimpsed two huge headlights. Yucks, he thought for the second time that afternoon, they're not brown.

He never heard the repeated and blaring horns.

Like a sledgehammer the car rammed into the old man's frail frame, and gracefully he flew well over ten meters down the road. Hurriedly the driver sprang out of this leather seat and darted towards the groaning victim.

"Why didn't you look at the traffic light? It was green!" cried the driver after apologizing while trying to assist the old man in anyway he could.

"What green? It was brown...I've never heard of green before....what's that?"