by Bonnie J Redding
Red: the hey-look-at-me color. Red is squirmy, breath-catching, unavoidable. It's the color of the roses the short-term boyfriends brought me.
Not red: the blue tattered sailors by the side of the road that my husband loved to pick for me.
I sit uneasily on a padded chaise lounge at Virginia Blood Services. Running through my mind is one of the forty questions the computer asked. "Are you on any medications?" No, I answered, truthfully. I'm free of them. I peer over at the bag of blood hanging below the chair. It looks like chocolate pudding, or more the color of raw liver. Not red.
Red: the color of the pill bottle I threw out three weeks ago.
Not red: the intelligent, warm brown eyes of the man I love.
Red: the door of the house we settled into after our marriage.
Not red: the closet door, tan and tightly shut.
Red: the tiny eyes I see at night, glowing red when the closet door is ajar. I'd always close it. He'd leave it open, unthinking, or maybe on purpose.