Your favorite color is red. But I don't know this because your bedroom walls are painted red, or because you quietly paint your nails red whenever you get too bored. I know this because, when we met for the first time, you confidently ordered a cherry martini at the bar. You whispered to me that you secretly hated the cherry taste; you just liked the way the color looked against your bronze skin.
I gape at you across the room, your brown eyes glued to the plasma TV. Some stupid reality show is on; a fist fight erupts on the screen and you giggle to yourself. These shows have always enticed you, claiming that the twisted lives on TV make you feel better about your own. I know how upset you are, 28 years old and still patiently waiting for that ring on your finger.
You probably don't know that I'm watching you. As far as you're concerned, I'm lounging on the other couch and typing on my laptop. But I'm not. I'm watching you closely, taking guesses as to when you'll get up to grab a root beer.
I have always loved you. I love you every time you have read your tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye, I love you during scary movies when you hide behind a pillow, and I love you whenever you fire back a witty remark after I have playfully teased you. I don't think I will ever stop loving you. Actually, I'm positive I will never stop loving you.
Suddenly you turn to me and catch my stare. "What are you looking at?"
I shrug. "You."
You smirk and return to the TV. I wonder how much longer I have to watch you, how many minutes are left before the show abruptly comes to an end. But even though the credits roll, the characters are still left with their problems. I might think these reality shows are a waste of a good time block, but sometimes I find myself relating to them.
"Hey, baby."
Those two words, three simple syllables, tempt you to spin around and flash a smile. The whole room brightens. But you are not looking at me, because I am not the one who has spoken those words.
Your boyfriend, my best friend since the third grade, strolls into the living room with a bouquet of purple roses. In his other hand, he holds a small velvet box behind his back, keeping it out of your sight for just a few seconds longer. I knew he was going to do this, I knew my time was running out.
I should probably leave the room, but I can't. The reality show has ended and I want to watch the credits. In the corner of my eye, I see my best friend on one knee and I see tears in your dark eyes. A preview for next week's episode appears on the TV, promising new fights, but the same troubles.
Lowering the volume, I turn my body and find the two of you hugging. A new diamond ring is on your finger, as you softly touch his cheek. In your other hand, you tightly clutch the bouquet of purple roses.
Even though your favorite color is red.
I gape at you across the room, your brown eyes glued to the plasma TV. Some stupid reality show is on; a fist fight erupts on the screen and you giggle to yourself. These shows have always enticed you, claiming that the twisted lives on TV make you feel better about your own. I know how upset you are, 28 years old and still patiently waiting for that ring on your finger.
You probably don't know that I'm watching you. As far as you're concerned, I'm lounging on the other couch and typing on my laptop. But I'm not. I'm watching you closely, taking guesses as to when you'll get up to grab a root beer.
I have always loved you. I love you every time you have read your tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye, I love you during scary movies when you hide behind a pillow, and I love you whenever you fire back a witty remark after I have playfully teased you. I don't think I will ever stop loving you. Actually, I'm positive I will never stop loving you.
Suddenly you turn to me and catch my stare. "What are you looking at?"
I shrug. "You."
You smirk and return to the TV. I wonder how much longer I have to watch you, how many minutes are left before the show abruptly comes to an end. But even though the credits roll, the characters are still left with their problems. I might think these reality shows are a waste of a good time block, but sometimes I find myself relating to them.
"Hey, baby."
Those two words, three simple syllables, tempt you to spin around and flash a smile. The whole room brightens. But you are not looking at me, because I am not the one who has spoken those words.
Your boyfriend, my best friend since the third grade, strolls into the living room with a bouquet of purple roses. In his other hand, he holds a small velvet box behind his back, keeping it out of your sight for just a few seconds longer. I knew he was going to do this, I knew my time was running out.
I should probably leave the room, but I can't. The reality show has ended and I want to watch the credits. In the corner of my eye, I see my best friend on one knee and I see tears in your dark eyes. A preview for next week's episode appears on the TV, promising new fights, but the same troubles.
Lowering the volume, I turn my body and find the two of you hugging. A new diamond ring is on your finger, as you softly touch his cheek. In your other hand, you tightly clutch the bouquet of purple roses.
Even though your favorite color is red.
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