She set herself apart through apricot. Her world was one of pastel – no clashing neons, no absorbing burgundy and no depressing monochrome; colors everywhere, but just a touch above white and nothing to disturb serenity.

Reading Sloterdijk, my chair creaked as I tried to regain my form after having drifted off into a slouching, sickly poise. Was mildness something that could invigorate? Could moderation excite?

I got up, my book sliding off my lap and landing on the floor. The page that landed unevenly, the words upon it got bent into a thrill. Sloterdijk looked up at the scene in sepia.

I leaned over and – gently brushing through her hair – kissed her. The taste of tobacco lingered on her lips as Sartre gazed at me from the bookshelf.

Wittgenstein and his tractus, with his lesson on language, tried to tell me that if I did not find the words for it, it was nonsense. And yet, with all the words necessary to express every single reality at my disposal, I could not drape this moment in syllables.

Color blocks, beige and pastel blue and turquoise.

And then the ever awe inspiring apricot.

So mellow a tint with such forceful effect.

Her cheeks, her lips, the fruit in her hand.

Then the bite; disrupting the calm and showing a different color inside.


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