Red, a poem, or some not so serious prose?

Look at those red roses, don't you just love them?

 

That was her and me being me, I wasn't sure if that was a question mark or an exclamation point, replied in my customary way,. "I suppose they are quite nice," which of course was not the correct response and she looked disappointed or disgusted as if I had dissed the red Ferrari we had seen drive by us while entering the park.  I assure you she hadn't noticed it though so it couldn't be "as if" that, but I had, and of course there wasn't much point mentioning it.

 

Now you are just thinking that he likes cars and she flowers, pretty typical.  But you have to look deeper, bobo.  What about the redness?  That was what made us notice the thing.  A black car or black flowers would not have made us even notice.  Red stands out and is always, I think, something to comment on.  But, but...

 

What is red?  That is what bothers me.  Tell me about red I have said to her.  It is an unfair thing to ask as there is not a way to describe red.  The colour of blood I say, which makes her feel faint, just the thought, but is it the red?  I might comment on a beautiful fight I saw on television, where the winner, my favourite, with an elegant feint to the left and a gentle jab with his right then suddenly exploded with an unexpected left uppercut that jolted his poor opponent so violently that his head snapped back and blood flew from his nostrils and the sides of his mouth as he lay on the canvas and was counted out, a loser.  Beautifully done I would think, but not something to tell someone who likes flowers.  

 

But it was because of the red too somehow.  

 

Maybe when I see something described as red, it is what she sees as grey and visa versa.  Could be, you can't prove that wrong, bobo.   That could be the problem of men and women.  Colours, that's it bobo, colours.  What a discovery, eh?  

 

(question mark or exclamation point?)

 

Too simple, yes it is too simple, but I don't care that much for flowers and German or Italian cars, especially if they are red appeal to me.

 

I could feign excitement, pretend redness in all cases was orgasmic.  But then there would be some bright blue plant of some name which I would never be able to remember that would remind me of a mixture of the juxtaposition of a certain sea with a specific sky, and I would be just as annoying to her with some stupid response about the flowers.  Or maybe I wasn't reminded of anything, maybe I dislike blue, or maybe, just maybe, I dislike flowers.