The vibrant silk kimono clashes with my Chanel red lips and nails, but I decide it doesn’t matter; certain shades of orange, like terracotta, are tonal, subtler than red. Sienna, baked clay, emits earthy, soothing warmth, and I consider trying a different lipstick.
Orange, combining the energy of red and the happiness of yellow; the fruity hue suits my fair flesh and lifts my complexion. I imagine an artist whirling his brush in sunshine, dipping sable into coral, creating whorls on his palette. I resolve to explore complementary colours, expand my wardrobe to match the seasons and colour me beautiful.
The doctor examined my wound. He dug and probed, and I was glad when he stopped. One would think he was kneading dough. When he saw my ‘English Poetry from Chaucer to Rossetti’, he revealed a little of himself. Eyes alight, he quoted: ‘I remember, I remember, the house where I was borne’, then switched to the last couple of lines about being ‘further away from Heaven now that he is old enough to know the height of trees’. He is fond of Omar Khayyám and said that when he feels depressed he reels the Rubaiyat off by heart.
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