Katie stepped out the door with only condoms and change in her jean pockets, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye under her arm. She had her pink-checkered sneakers on and she bird-hopped over a puddle to avoid splotching their delicate print, her soles noiseless, her matching pink coat-tails flowing behind her. Pink was her favorite color ever since she remembered seeing the flamingos at Marine World when she was little. Her mother had led her by the hand to the edge of the enclosure and she'd peered, white faced and eyes round, over the fence as the flamingos stood long-legged and ostentatious in the sun. They were different from other birds. Flamingos were colored only by what they took in. They sapped spineless pink shrimps, leaving only hollow shells. Then their plumage bloomed into a rosy glow. Without it, they turned snow-white and simple.
It was March, but it felt like February. The white lay like a spread quilt barely covering the dirty hairs of grass underneath, the drifts the swells of a body under sheets. Reed would be waiting for her. She hurried her pace to round the bend of the street that cut a black lariat through the white landscape, and she never looked back. She never looked back because she was never going back.
She saw Reed's round face in the foggy window of the boxy old Cutlass, exhaust steaming from the tailpipe as he waited just where he'd said he would. The car hummed as he sat with the engine on. He coughed. "Hey, let's go," she said. She stopped in front of the car.
The snow misted lightly.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his breath hanging in the air.
Her eyes widened, the whites like eggs in their sockets, the grey irises pale, clear yolks. "Baby, I love you," she said.
He peered over the dashboard at her, at her see-through eyes, crooked lips, and her cheeks glowing rosy. Down the sweep of her body, her proud, puffed chest as she stood long-legged in the sun, a drop of pink conspicuous in the brightest white. She looked at him hard, and he looked back harder, the wreaths of breath wringing from his mouth. He looked until it was hard enough that his eyes lost focus, everything slowly melting, and she faded into ordinary, tablecloth white.
Playing? Sweet Caroline. Neil Diamond.
PS - Rough draft, and there needs more.
PSS - title?
writing
