(no subject)
When it came right down to it, it was all blue cotton. The thread count didn't change the origin of the fibers. The shade didn't change the category of the dye color.
The wearer changed everything.
It looked better on her than it did on him. One of his old and faded blue shirts, a relic of the days after the circuit when he hadn't been quite sure what to do with himself but blue still brought out his eyes to good advantage. The honeymoon was over, the house had yet to be unpacked, but they were sleeping in their bed even if half their things were still in half-opened boxes on the floor.
She was perched on their bed, long slender legs beautifully toned and tanned from running. Now she could run along the beach.
Looking over her shoulder, laughing just before she ducked away from the camera. Leftover film from their honeymoon. He'd found it, started taking snapshots, but the one of her on the bed right before the pillow came flying at the lens was his favorite. Tucked away in an old book of poetry he used to read to her. While she sat curled on the bed in one of his old, faded blue shirts. The most beautiful newly-wed wife in the world.
His thumb brushes over the faded gloss on the photo paper. Liquid distorts the image.
He flicks his wrist. Orange and gold flames curl the edges inward, blackening those beautiful legs, turning faded blue to white ash.
The wearer changed everything.
It looked better on her than it did on him. One of his old and faded blue shirts, a relic of the days after the circuit when he hadn't been quite sure what to do with himself but blue still brought out his eyes to good advantage. The honeymoon was over, the house had yet to be unpacked, but they were sleeping in their bed even if half their things were still in half-opened boxes on the floor.
She was perched on their bed, long slender legs beautifully toned and tanned from running. Now she could run along the beach.
Looking over her shoulder, laughing just before she ducked away from the camera. Leftover film from their honeymoon. He'd found it, started taking snapshots, but the one of her on the bed right before the pillow came flying at the lens was his favorite. Tucked away in an old book of poetry he used to read to her. While she sat curled on the bed in one of his old, faded blue shirts. The most beautiful newly-wed wife in the world.
His thumb brushes over the faded gloss on the photo paper. Liquid distorts the image.
He flicks his wrist. Orange and gold flames curl the edges inward, blackening those beautiful legs, turning faded blue to white ash.