Published by Hermeneutic Chaos Journal

For more than a week she’d been trying to get a handle on purple.
She’d wake up, stretch, throw back her covers, and whisper, Purple. She’d hear her neighbors, trudging the floorboards above, sniping at each other in that short, bitter, morning talk. Purple, Purple. She’d close her eyes in the shower while she massaged shampoo into her scalp, muttering, Purple, Purple, Purple, and blanking her mind with a fog the color of grape-flavored bubble gum, then the color of eggplant, then the periwinkle of sweet peas, then the hazy smudged purple of smoky sunsets.

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Image of died wool by Inge Boesken Kanold (via Wikimedia Commons).