“Do you think we made the right decision?” My fingerprints swirled clockwise against the threads on the back of your shirt, the frictional resistance reminding me they were not supposed to be there. Your gaze darted across the lot as cars started, stopped, and started again, reaching their determined locations.

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“I mean, I think brunch was pretty great.” 

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My eyes drooped, and my shoulders rolled forward. It seemed as if your physicality was the only tangible element to lean on.

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“Do you know what I was thinking about the other day?” My fingers stopped keeping time. “I don’t even know what your favorite color is.”

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“Because I think that’s a stupid question.” I knew you would say that, which is why we never discussed it.

 

“I know, I know, but–”

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“I mean, if I had to answer it, I would say earth tones. Forest greens or any kind of green. What about you?” 

 

“I used to be a big purple fan, but I don’t really know now.”

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“You seem like a purple girl.”

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“Yeah, I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel the same anymore. Maybe more of a light blue?”

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Purple. It was true. When I was five years old, I received the glorious burden of selecting the color of my bedroom. Never would my eyes gaze again on hue cards or paint swatches for the space I spent twenty years of my life in. It was not vibrant. It was not dull. It was the most mediocre of purples, but it was mine. The shade hugged my walls as I made a zoo with stuffed animals for my little sister, poorly strummed a flimsy plastic pick against guitar strings, read far past my bedtime, applied drugstore makeup to acne-ridden skin, put on my cap and gown, and placed every single one of my belongings into uniform, monochrome tote boxes. I could try and surmise my adolescence in a word, or a phrase, or a photo, but it is purple.

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I did not want to say all of this to you and seem ridiculous for finding meaning in something that you do not. Because then, I knew you would ask why such a permanent answer would shift, and I would stumble over my words, attempting to explain it is because of you.

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On our second date - ice cream - you didn’t wear your glasses. You startled me when you stepped out of the car to open my door, saying my cute date, unfortunately, couldn’t make it that night and asked you to fill in. I thought I was alarmed because a boy was opening a car door for me (an act I always intentionally refuse). But as I stared above your dash at the ribbon striped with navy attached to a medal securing your title as the best brother in the world, I remembered: Before my walls were purple and I got to choose, they were sky blue.

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My mother, in her most noble attempt to be an artist, painted my room as her imagination envisioned. Freehand, unintentionally abstract flowers and blades of grass grew from caramel baseboards, and white puffy clouds reached towards cobwebbed ceilings. It was the site of picnic daydreams, fresh air, and new beginnings. Blue has always been my starting line.

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Blue. Your irises are the color of Cookie Monster cupcakes at a 3-year-old’s birthday party, my stuffed “touchdown” monkey with arms permanently set to celebrate. They are the straws at the coffee shop where you worked, my nails when we first met, the blend of our comforters intertwined. Your school, your bicycle, your favorite shirt. The faded football game ticket wedged between pages of an untouched book on my shelf. Accidentally matching for Sunday brunch in my navy dress and the button-down I made fun of you for cropping. It was misleading of me because I would love anything if it is on you.

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Is my favorite color still stupid now?

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Do I seem like a “purple girl” because you think I reek of adolescence? Because before your touch pulled crimson from my fingertips, I was frozen in time? Did my walls stain me with innocence in a way I cannot conceal with tinted moisturizer or a sweatshirt on a summer’s day? Or am I purple because you chose what you wanted for the first time in your life instead of what is known?

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You will always be blue - my first love, my inherited beginning. When I select a new shade, I will drown my brush in my paint bucket, smearing layer after layer over what was. My rash attempts to cover creating sticky, peeling lumps and potent fumes. Painters’ tape can only do so much. Your color will always peer out behind the edges and live behind the corners of the walls; paint scuffed on my baseboards. I cannot wholly mask what used to be through a more permanent shade. You and I will always know what is breathing underneath.