A bay leaf fell into the hot pan. Wait! No, not the smell. It was about the colours this time. Yeah, the colours.
He wore a white shirt. She wore a black dress.
The brown and green bottles, glass goblets, they all carried golden drinks in them.
The night must have been silver probably, they would not know, because they were not looking at the sky this time. Because they were not looking at each other. They were too much not looking at each other. So they did not know if the night was silver.
The grass in the park used to be green. And dancing. It still is. But not the grass that was rolled and passed, between fingers. It was brown and grey, and dead.
The song was the same. No woman, no cry. They listened to it together, among people, between themselves.
The morning was blue, with silhouettes of trees and birds waking up.
His black heart burned her white soul. The fire was so blinding, nobody could see anything. There were grey ashes left behind. Of course, of burned cigarettes.
The sun rose, and it was yellow.
What was to happen? How were they to survive? How, with so much of black and white and grey and silver and golden and rainbows?