Member-only story
Indian Summer
Talking outta my head
Indian summer.
Summer road.
Road rage.
Rage blood.
Blood lust.
Lust lost.
Lost face.
Face yours.
Yours, ever.
Ever…?
Ever.
In all fairness, it has been a tremendous Indian summer so far, and I’m happy. Serene. Excited. No, those two can’t coexist. Can they? Will I be still long enough to be happy? Me, an artistic runt with half a face, and less than half a name. Sharpening my pen against the sides of my paint-dry desk.
It works because the colors make sense. But I don’t know if I should talk to you about colors. My mother told me you were color-blind. She said she saw you walk against the red light like it was nobody’s street. But she made it her business. That’s momma for you, she’ll dash after strangers if it means things slipping into order. My momma, she has a peculiar way of understanding order.
So, then? Are you mad? Because of what I said with the colors, and the lights.
No. I’m not mad.
And the colors?
