Truth or Flare

Truth or Flare

A severe slate blue, grey perfectly entwining its fingers with a mild blue, think retro wool coats, metal filing cabinets, blue chalk on an abused blackboard. You ain’t had it blue until you’ve had that mood. 

Long winter taking its toll on me. Undersunned, underjoyed, spending too much time under my covers. So much so, that I became too aware of the linty dots making my jersey sheets, also chalky blue, beg for replacement as they press against my idle skin.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time this week thinking of that moment when my son’s eyelids stop their argument against tone and relinquish him to a state of abandon in his deep sleep. He’s always had that wrestling dynamics with sleep, as if when he was gone the most wonderful things were allowed to happen and escape his tender grasp.

The hardened snow boulders line up the block making everything chromatically dimmed and I have to keep nagging my son to stop climbing the thick ice platforms right beneath the boulders. It’s a funny rhetorical game, where I remind him how badly it’s going to hurt if he slides and he just keeps bounding up and managing ever more adroitly after each admonishment. I, of course, showing Jewish momma training complete, fear the worse.

I realized I had dressed all in denim and neutrals, which made for a monochromatic ensemble with Truth or Flare, so I decided to offset with a tomato red lipstick, like one does when trying to make a sleepy decision look intentional, by design. As if I had decided to bring all eyes in the room to my lips and therefore dressed to optimize that color pop. I’ve never made such a Checkovian entrance in my life and can’t think of a good reason why I should start now.

That tomato red lipstick, which paired so nicely with the slew of blue, was bought under Tommaso’s advisement at a make up emporium which never fails to make me nauseous with choice. I miss him, his scraggly voice, rolling eyes and color assertiveness. 

End slate.