Beige

Photo credit: Jennifer Lazos

I found myself lying on the bed watching the ceiling fan spin round and round. I lay there contemplating the beauty in the world, and its vulgarity. I lay there thinking about how I needed to dust my fan.  I lay there contemplating the events that had transpired which led me to that very moment....

He always knew how to keep my insecurities raw. He knew just the thing to make me question both myself and my role and my worth. He knew the boundaries I had set for myself; and yet, somehow, he always knew how to push just a little bit further. He knew just the thing to say to make me jealous, though I would never consider myself a jealous person. And he certainly knew how to make me madder than a hornet.

My mind was jumbled with all of these thoughts...all at once.

I was coming down from every passion-fueled emotion.

It was a very beige moment. I wasn’t blue, really. I wasn’t seeing red anymore. I wasn’t green with jealousy.  I wasn’t yellow with cowardice.  And I certainly wasn’t peachy.  Yes, more than anything, I felt beige. And I hated both that color and that feeling.