Reida was Blue

Reida was blue until she wasn’t. She had burnt the tip of her tongue the night before on some red wine that sat above her working oven. Dried to burnt, the grapes were tarnished. The next day followed and she sat at a café for travelers across a man named Jesus. He wasn’t just any man since they lived together for a few months now, but he had left her for thirteen days to go visit an ex. It had been ten days since he had been back and they found themselves sitting in a café open till midnight with their laptops propped open next to people shopping for earrings, and others eating lox bagels. She asked him if he was nervous to see her this way. She had been in a state of toxic trauma, as she was wearing a plum sweater, but a shade of plum that must have been dried, fragile, and overall light in tone. She stood amongst the mustard and burnt red color walls and people feeling too bold, too youthful for the man who sat across her twenty years older. She told him that she was the killer of all things and he sat with his lips tightening. “What do you like about me, why are you with me, together with me?” Drip dark poison into the drink of their couple-hood she would soon diminish the them of they. Apparently, she had scared the kid. 
“You never speak like that. I don’t think I remember the last time I saw this side of you.” 
“When was last time you saw her?” 
“I’m not sure if I ever have. You’re the killer of things? I think of the lavender plant in our house.” Regular watering, Reida knew. Reida never watered that wilting creature that sat above the radiator. She simply sipped her watered down Malaysian tea and thought of those days of silence. When he had left, she was in a state of intense need to cleanse, so she disinfected the gunk found in every crease. How could she remember to water trees when crust gathered in her linen drawers? Killer of bacteria, killer of plant life, killer of them perhaps. “Honey, I’m joking.” She tried to push her anxiety away because Jesus hadn’t written since the summer months and it was March. She wanted him to be creative, but the oversize purple of herself made her feel so washed out, worn out, gone. As she stared onward sipping the sugary less than caffeinated stained water, she fell off her chair down in a spiral to the beat of guitar strings picked by the speakers above to the right and left of her. Some woman kept speaking in the boutique behind them mixing with the guitar tune, the Strokes, and the sound of her crashing to the floor. Poison it truly must have been that burnt cup of wine she drank the night before. She wondered if Jesus placed it there just for her. A couple that kills she thought just before she couldn’t. 

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