It is slightly grey outside but the colours that fill spaces within were far from grey. He pulled on his white shirt and she, she was red and blue as she sipped coffee and watched the rain. He sprung down the stairs and made himself a cup of coffee using that brand new nespresso machine, his new toy. He was definitely not grey.
The mood was, Mraz, and she turned the music. Weather like this filled her head with beautifully formed words and she must write. Often they just filled her head and stopped at being ideas, today she wanted those words to flow and unfold to build a story, and flow they did. She smiled. Something that definitely brightened his day. She felt slightly proud, as he sipped the coffee sweetened with honey, and took at bite of the brown bread. His tongue tingled with excitement at those tastes for liking for natural foods was something he had to acquire, he said, for the chinaman he was. In time, acquired them he did, and to her, being the yellow chinaman had nothing to do whatsoever with the appreciation of things, just as they are.
She held the opinion that people never left things as they are as much anymore, neither do they like things just the way they are anymore. Simplicity is a waning trend, and deemed old school, old fashioned. As her yellow chinaman preferred elaborate foods, over processed with too much sugar, refined of course and she must admit taste pretty good, her home never contained much of such. She just wanted to come home to simplicity, and seeing how he came home to her every night now, he seems to have found the same pleasure in simplicity. She was not much of the over processed, refined kind of lady. Guarded she was, because, when people saw her, and not like what they saw, it was her whole being they did not like, and that filled her with much stress, not being liked.
She recalled a conversation that partly seeded a cold war she is in with a dear friend, still dear no doubt. Something about painting her face with things called make up, and doing something about her hair. She was somewhat sick of needing to change into something she was not. It was not fair, because that dear friend was dear to her, just as he was, flaws and all. And she tried hard at that too. Loving people the way they are. Why do they go and refined and process themselves into something they were not, or hide behind paint and straightening tongs? She just found it hard, to constantly live up to standards that did not come naturally. Lip stick fades with every drink, and hair straightened by them tongs crimp and frizz up again with time, unsustainable. And then he spoke of her art, and yes, he was right, sometimes to earn some, we need to conform some, but he accused the very heart of her for being, not good enough. She oft found those girls with bright red lipsticks, and processed hair, grey. She was yellow on the inside, red and blue on the outside, far from grey. To conform, was to turn grey, like the weather. And his wanting to turn her grey angered her a little. She brushed it off, for he was colour blind, but I guess in time, it did seed a cold war. Sadly.
She turned back into the yellow chinaman in white and blue chewing on brown bread and sipping honeyed coffee and smiled. Something the yellow chinaman chewing on brown bread, acquiring tastes for something closer to natural form, simple, warmed her heart. Because it meant, she did not have to try to bend over backwards, slap powder on her face, and pulled those curls straight to please his eyes. To him she was beautiful, the way she is. And she was, because of that, even more so.
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