He's dirty grey like a misprinted photograph and smokes like a movie star. Tightens his dry lips about the cigarette and kind of shuts his eyes a bit. He pushes his lifeless lips against mine and I take over, pull the smoke deeply into my lungs and open my mouth to let it out. Hate it when he sits above my head like he does. Hate it when he bends down and caresses and squeezes my flat breasts that should be there. If I was a girl. You're so colorless, I tell him. And he laughs. Echoes. Hollow. Gray. He says I have color enough for us both, in that sickly sweet, romantic way that I wish he would use more often. But no, he doesn't say anything like that. He lets his ice fingers dance over my skin, his stomach above my face. Pushes against. Clashes his forehead against mine, and opens his eyes wide, fastens his gaze in mine and pulls my hands about his neck, digs them in his ash blonde hair.
Colorless. He says that his eyes are blue. Ice, I say, colorless. Black, white, grey, misprinted. I clench my hand into a gun, see the blood run down his temple and spread throughout his hair, drip down from his watercolor-lashes of ashes, see it fall down into my eyes. Press him against me and feel the warmth spread; brilliant scarlet and shimmering. I tell him that, that he has a color now. That he's finally alive. And he laughs. Echoes. Hollow. Red.
I wrote this in Swedish first (haven't written in Swedish for AGES), but then translated it because I couldn't find a title and an English speaking person offered to help. Anyway. Spontanous impulse inspiration thingy. Hope you like.