It's the color of her dress on a Saturday. The one that makes her skin look paler than the white cat she adores. The dress that she wears when she dances in the middle of the living room with takeout on the coffee table because there's nowhere she'd rather be.
It's the color of her favorite wine that I think tastes horrible, but I don't tell her that. It's the same wine that's making her sway and sway, and I don't know what to do with myself. Her eyes are wide and look stained black in the crappy light of the years old lamp we both hate but refuse to get rid of. For sentimentality's sake, she says.
The city's lights are shining below us, sparking and winking as people come and go. There's the honking of horns, and the silver stretches of the moon's welcoming arms across the sky. The apartment smells of Chinese food and the lemon scented candle burning in the kitchen. It sounds of laughter and the bumps of accidentally running into furniture.
It's the color of her dress on a Saturday, and it's the little things I'm noticing that make it look all the more gorgeous on her.
