He had come to associate her with the color red. She was fascinated by the color, and even sometimes, defined by the color. Constantly he saw her, in her favorite red hooded sweatshirt, the very same sweatshirt she wore to the hospital when her Mother had a heart attack. Heart, blood, Red. There was red in her eyes. Not from crying, no, she rarely ever did that, but with some fire, some passion, they blazed Red. That died down a little when she found out she'd be okay, and then she noticed the stain on her favorite Red sweater. As per usual to her nature, she fussed about it, nearly obsessing over the small spot that didn't matter at all a matter of moments before.
Once, she had heard on the radio that it was 65 outside. She ran out the door in her mismatched socks which he had come to appreciate like no one had before, and her Red sweater, now stainless. For the first time in a long time, he saw her smile, a real smile. Then she took off her socks and ran, with that same wistful smile. Her toenails were blue. He wondered why she hadn't painted them Red, like her fingernails. The wind played lightly with the ends of her hair making it dance and whirl. Her feet sloshed through the mud from the rainstorm the previous night, and just nipping at her heels was another storm just waiting to ruin her. She didn't care.
When the sun hit her just right, her hair would light up into dozens of colors. More distinctly, it glowed a brilliant shade of Red. He'd never noticed it before but he certainly did now. When she was outside, he could feel, sense, that she was happier than ever. She was in her element.
He had also come to associate her with being nurturing, loving. She was Red. Red like the bracelets she wore on her wrist. Red like the passion she had, Red like her fury. Red like her sweater, she was Red like her dreams that she sometimes questioned; Red like her strength that he so often envied. Red like her lips and the cherry drink she often savored, she was Red.
She was Red, like desire. He desired her because she was Red.
When she returned from running he looked at her, with her glasses on, this time, much softer than ever. He had never seen her with glasses on. They were blue, a cold dark blue. But she was even more beautiful. "You should wear them more often," he told her. Truth be told, they gave her a frightful headache.
"Why are your glasses blue?" He asked her. "Well," she said, "they were Red once. But I had them painted." He gave her a curious look. "Why would you do that?"
She looked down, away from his face, almost ashamed. She played with the pocket on her sweater. She gazed at her feet, and finally said, "Because sometimes it hurts to look people in the eye. Sometimes you just love them too much. Then all you can really do is hope that they love you, too." A tear rolled down her cheek,
But then, so softly he took her hands in his and kissed her and her cheeks flushed Red. The wind blew his scent to her and she sighed. "What is it about red?" He asked her.
She looked at him and said, "Red draws the eye." And he thought to himself, it certainly does. Because no one had ever caught his eye the way she had.