A Lady Pigeon’s blue period

Like it or not, I’ve always been unconsciously drawn to monochromatic color schemes. If I had a dollar for each time I left the house and got to wherever I was going and heard “Oh wow you coordinated your shoes and nails and bag and belt and shirt and pants and underpants and sunglasses!” and I responded “wait, I did?” I’d have enough to buy another accessory in that color.

This is why I was particularly drawn to this blue bird. She was standing outside her house, which was painted blue. All the other homes on the block are brown or gray or white. Her house wasn’t. This lady had on a royal blue pencil skirt and her legs, vein-wrapped and taught, ended in a pair of navy wedge espadrille heels. The toes the poked out of the peep holes were probably enameled in blue, but I was too far away to tell. Her top half was sheathed in a silk sleeveless top, blueish-gray like a storm cloud. Her hair was brown, and this couldn’t be helped because it was too dark to dye but she waited anxiously for the day it would begin to turn silver and then, well, she would have her way. She had a dark blue trash can cover in one hand that belonged to the light blue trash can she hovered over. With the other hand, she was tossing a pair of red dress shoes into the garbage (presumably because they were red). They looked worn. She also looked worn. She turned and almost caught me staring but her gaze was set to something less tangible than a nosy passer-by.

The blue lady walked into the door, which was a darker shade of blue than the house. It’s really something how many shades of one color can co-exist at the same time. No two objects were the same yet if you showed any of them to someone outside of the house and asked what color it is, they would simply reply, “blue.” I heard her put on that Miles Davis record, you know the one I’m talking about. She sighed as she took a glass down from the shelf in the kitchen and filled it with water and then looked at the Polaroid camera on the table and the now-developed snapshot that hung from its jaws. The picture was clear, but she waved it in the air out of habit. She stopped and stared. Two feet stared back at her. They were her feet from not long ago, but you wouldn’t recognize them in those red heels.

Hot pokers ripe from the fire were jabbing at her temples. Slamming the water glass down, she marched into the bedroom, knelt at the foot of the bed, disappeared for a moment, then dragged out a long blue box. The lid lifted to reveal several small boxes nestled inside: a green box, a pink box, a black box, a gold box, a box covered in plaid, and a red box. She tore the cover off this last box, threw the photo inside, and slammed it shut. Then the blue lid was replaced and the box shoved back under the bed, but this she did with such force that one the way out the sharp metal edge of the bed frame caught her skin. She looked at the trickle sliding down the back of her hand. “God damnit!” The blue box was dragged back out, the red box reopened. She held her hand over it and resigned herself to “Freddie Freeloader” while she waited.