The fire crackles, the room silent.
She regards the flames like they’re something comical,
and eyes her wine glass as she twirls it between
tapered fingertips.
She wonders what would happen if she spilled wine
on her cream-silk gown.
It would probably look pretty.
Or at least different.
It could be a powerful red, like blood against pale skin.
Or maybe a more washed-out red, like watercolors in an amateur painting.
Either way though, it would be interesting.
Her fingers change position.
The glass gently starts to list to one side,
like a ship rolling at anchor,
and a single perfect red orb
tumbles through space.
Within half a second the perfection is destroyed
And the truth of the color reveals itself
On the fabric of her skirt.
She tilts her head slowly to one side.
It’s not really a blood red, but
definitely not washed out.
It’s too…intense.
Satisfied with her experiment,
she lets out a high-pitched laugh.
Although it’s not really a laugh,
it’s too… chilling.
It starts at the back of her throat
and erupts upward,
bursting from her lips
and dropping down in to the silent room,
For no purpose but to be consumed by the crackling flames.