Sometimes his clear brown eyes flicker over me; but they do not see me. Sometimes he notices the amount of attention his fiery hair gets him and feels minutely embarrassed. His russet hair, like estival Japanese-style fireworks, gives me a rush of adrenaline my cold grey existence had never encountered; and I am left floundering on the abandoned stage, a pierrot that gyrates desperately to the warm color of red.

Sometimes I dream of being rescued, of being salvaged from the denial that cocoons me from this loneliness. Sometimes his rough riotous manner breaks to allow a nanosecond of insecurity. I see in him a glimmer of my vulnerable shadow, though the desire never fades. His colorful enthusiasm gives me strength, so lacking in my nature. I throw aside the fear enough to indulge in an inner smile.

And the game continues, the repetitive sound of the orange ball on ground, a soothing soundtrack to our vanilla romance.