Orange was his favourite colour. But no, not because it was the colour of the setting sun. His reason was even cheesier than that.
Orange was the colour of the dress she wore on that hot summer day when he first saw her. The orange fabric danced around her legs, moved by the soft breeze. Waves of golden hair cascaded down her back and natural tan gilded her perfectly sculptured body. The way her bare feet graced the ground made him jealous of every single grain of sand on the beach. Even the sun wished it could make its descend into the sea quicker, abashed by the light that radiated from her.
She was like a daydream, too good to be real, momentary and intangible. A rare phenomenon, beauty so exceptional it deserved being immortalised in all forms of art. She was art – an intriguing story, poetry simple yet sophisticated, an exhibit he could admire endlessly for the rest of his life.
Orange was the colour in which he saw their life together–bright and vibrant. Holding hands as they strolled down the streets, they’d make every head turn and he’d be the luckiest man on earth. Their wedding would make it to the front page news. Their children–at least two–would take afteir their mother. Maybe they’d have their father’s eyes.
The eyes that were willing to see the world only in orange…
Orange used to be his favourite colour. Then it quickly turned into the colour of disappointment, the one he hated the most, reminding him that dreams–no matter how vivid–would always remain just dreams.
Orange was the colour of the dress another guy tore off of his girl after the sun had set.