By Tiare Devenot
Pink is a cheek. It is also the tongue in the cheek and the snipping words that fly off that tongue. I have never had much affection for pink, except for its presence on babies toes and peonies. It is a funny color, this Pink. If you were to take a drive with Pink and Black were in the passenger’s seat, Pink would drive like spaghetti through canyons. Pink’s hair would fly in lightning streaks under gypsy-blue silk. The open air of the convertible would try to suck Pink into the sky—I never taste colors like you, the sky would say. Pink would flirt and wink and ash—a cigarette would fly and fill the valley’s belly with fire. Think about it, though, if Pink and White took a ride, White in that same passenger’s seat, that same top would be pulled up—pulled up like the nest of hair atop of Pink’s head. That same silk would be bowed tight as lips at the neck, shushing, “shhh,” at White, “I am driving.” Pink with White would squint over clear spectacles, through a rearview mirror, at a line of cars growing at the bumper. Pink with Black would screech by, flip the bird, and flick a cigarette into Pink and Whites half-rolled-down window. It would land in Pink’s lap, and burn a black hole through Pink’s pressed, white, linen trousers.