Battleship gray. Sky the color of the adjacent angry sea, the line between the two indistinct. Space between the two is occupied by water, headed from one to the other. I know which way it should be going, but the wind has decided to play with it instead.
Blood red. A cliché of a color. In reality it’s the crimson of an arterial bleed; the maroon of an oozing vein; the rust brown of a crime scene; light pink; deep purple. Anywhere along the spectrum of human misadventure.
Frank sits in a chair in the middle of his sixth floor apartment. His blood sits in the middle of the color spectrum, oozing from a cut above his right eye. The gale rattles the windows, threatening to break in and bring the angry sea with it.
“Frank, what happened?”
“I stood up to close the window, and the wind blew it in on my head.” Sure enough, it’s one of those designs which tilts in for cleaning. Frank has a fabulous view of the city and the sea beyond. “I’ll be alright.”
Black and white. A framed photo of a smiling young sailor on the desk, resplendent in WWII whites.
We bandage his minor wound, and offer to bring Frank to the hospital. He declines, strongly. “Hitler couldn’t kill me. I’m not worried about the Housing Authority.”
We leave him there, staring out at the angry sea. Black and white, gray and red.
