So what's my favorite color?" shew asked in a playful tone and a warm smile.
“You want me to tell you what your favorite color is? C’mon, that’s way too easy. Ask me something that will actually require thinking.” I said in a desperate attempt to change the question.
“Tell me.” She said, which usually means I should answer the question because she knows I don’t know the answer.
"She caught my bluff. Yeah, she’s good… too good." I said to myself.
"Okay, you know this one. You know her favorite color, so don't panic. Take in a couple of breathes. She's told you like a trillion times before. Just stay calm. And don't forget to smile back." I thought to myself. I began to feel the tingly sensation begin to erupt on my face, as my cheeks began to blush. I was blushing from the embarrassment—the embarrassment of not knowing the most simple and trivial questions. She is going to hate me forever now, forever.
We’ve been together for some time now. We’ve shared may beautiful moments and our share of some not so beautiful moments—so not knowing her favorite color would be a lot like me not knowing what my own mothers name is besides mom. This may not be a dire question which may lead to emotional ten car pile-up, but can illustrate whether or not I am paying attention to every word she is saying. I understand I won’t be able to hear every single word, but god knows I can try. I swear I’ve written down more information on things she likes and what she doesn’t like that I can write an entire Wikipedia entry on her.
“Her favorite color is red! I think.” I thought to myself in a panic.
“I can remember this one time when we both went shopping in the jungles of the mall hunting for the perfect lip stick color; she was tired of the lipstick she already had. We tracked it down near the Mac cosmetic section in Dillard’s—the perfect shade of red. We got it. It almost melted on the drive home, the trucks interior became a furnace because it waited outside under the glow of the summer’s intolerable sunshine. I fashioned a belt to hold it up against the AC vent out of lined paper. It made it back to her house in one solid form. And also like the mysterious red sweater that magically appeared inside my car when she was just about to freeze her then red nose off. Or like when we went on out first kind of-sort of date-ish thing when we feed ducks an entire loaf of cheap bread from Food City. She shaped a crude ring out of the tie that’s used to close the bread off, and I still have somewhere archived on my bed room floor.”
She’s looking at me like she knows what I’m doing. She knows I’m scanning my memory banks, my Karina archives, for clues. She’s too smart, or I’m just too stupid. I’ll figure it out… and soon hopefully.
The last time we played this game—the “I know, I know you better game”, I did really well. I answered without hesitation like a crack-head throwing away his last hard earned ten dollars from washing car windshields outside a Food City parking lot on a tiny rock of crack, and now look at me; I’m like that same crack-head at his intervention thinking back on all the good times, or bad, chasing that first high. It’s not going to end well if I can’t produce the right shade of color she had specifically told me. Man, why wasn’t I blessed with a memory to rival that of an elephant, or Brad Williams, or at least 10 second Tom from 50 First Dates. Oh well, I guess I got to work with what I got.
"It’s blue! Hold on now, why do I think it’s blue?” I asked myself.
“Oh yeah, I remember now! Like when we hung out for the first time almost two-and-a-half years ago, she had these two thin braids locked together behind her head with a deep ocean blue hair tie with the rest of her hair falling down her shoulders—and those blue flats she wore that same day to climb up a steep hill like a mountain goat. And also, blue like the Victoria Secret sweater she astoundingly accomplished to survive in when we were climbing up Cat Back; the thunder storms caught us midway up and washed us down like a couple of itsy bitsy spiders climbing up a water spout. So much for the 60% chance of rain the forecast called for, it seemed like they were 40% off. And how could I forget, blue like her frozen shivering lips trying to mimic the shape of a smile.” I thought quickly to myself.
Well, I’m sure I am not the first person to forget their significant others favorite color and by no means —the last one to do so neither. I guess I would be kind of a lucky one to have forgotten her favorite color rather than an important date like and anniversary, a birthday, or forgot to tell her she has something stick in between her teeth. The only thing I got to do is to pay closer attention to everything that happens to make it past her lips, and pray to god that I won’t forget anything else for quite some time, or until she forgets about this little incident.
"Your favorite color is brown." I said as my head sank below the quiet waves of my cold arms.
“You want me to tell you what your favorite color is? C’mon, that’s way too easy. Ask me something that will actually require thinking.” I said in a desperate attempt to change the question.
“Tell me.” She said, which usually means I should answer the question because she knows I don’t know the answer.
"She caught my bluff. Yeah, she’s good… too good." I said to myself.
"Okay, you know this one. You know her favorite color, so don't panic. Take in a couple of breathes. She's told you like a trillion times before. Just stay calm. And don't forget to smile back." I thought to myself. I began to feel the tingly sensation begin to erupt on my face, as my cheeks began to blush. I was blushing from the embarrassment—the embarrassment of not knowing the most simple and trivial questions. She is going to hate me forever now, forever.
We’ve been together for some time now. We’ve shared may beautiful moments and our share of some not so beautiful moments—so not knowing her favorite color would be a lot like me not knowing what my own mothers name is besides mom. This may not be a dire question which may lead to emotional ten car pile-up, but can illustrate whether or not I am paying attention to every word she is saying. I understand I won’t be able to hear every single word, but god knows I can try. I swear I’ve written down more information on things she likes and what she doesn’t like that I can write an entire Wikipedia entry on her.
“Her favorite color is red! I think.” I thought to myself in a panic.
“I can remember this one time when we both went shopping in the jungles of the mall hunting for the perfect lip stick color; she was tired of the lipstick she already had. We tracked it down near the Mac cosmetic section in Dillard’s—the perfect shade of red. We got it. It almost melted on the drive home, the trucks interior became a furnace because it waited outside under the glow of the summer’s intolerable sunshine. I fashioned a belt to hold it up against the AC vent out of lined paper. It made it back to her house in one solid form. And also like the mysterious red sweater that magically appeared inside my car when she was just about to freeze her then red nose off. Or like when we went on out first kind of-sort of date-ish thing when we feed ducks an entire loaf of cheap bread from Food City. She shaped a crude ring out of the tie that’s used to close the bread off, and I still have somewhere archived on my bed room floor.”
She’s looking at me like she knows what I’m doing. She knows I’m scanning my memory banks, my Karina archives, for clues. She’s too smart, or I’m just too stupid. I’ll figure it out… and soon hopefully.
The last time we played this game—the “I know, I know you better game”, I did really well. I answered without hesitation like a crack-head throwing away his last hard earned ten dollars from washing car windshields outside a Food City parking lot on a tiny rock of crack, and now look at me; I’m like that same crack-head at his intervention thinking back on all the good times, or bad, chasing that first high. It’s not going to end well if I can’t produce the right shade of color she had specifically told me. Man, why wasn’t I blessed with a memory to rival that of an elephant, or Brad Williams, or at least 10 second Tom from 50 First Dates. Oh well, I guess I got to work with what I got.
"It’s blue! Hold on now, why do I think it’s blue?” I asked myself.
“Oh yeah, I remember now! Like when we hung out for the first time almost two-and-a-half years ago, she had these two thin braids locked together behind her head with a deep ocean blue hair tie with the rest of her hair falling down her shoulders—and those blue flats she wore that same day to climb up a steep hill like a mountain goat. And also, blue like the Victoria Secret sweater she astoundingly accomplished to survive in when we were climbing up Cat Back; the thunder storms caught us midway up and washed us down like a couple of itsy bitsy spiders climbing up a water spout. So much for the 60% chance of rain the forecast called for, it seemed like they were 40% off. And how could I forget, blue like her frozen shivering lips trying to mimic the shape of a smile.” I thought quickly to myself.
Well, I’m sure I am not the first person to forget their significant others favorite color and by no means —the last one to do so neither. I guess I would be kind of a lucky one to have forgotten her favorite color rather than an important date like and anniversary, a birthday, or forgot to tell her she has something stick in between her teeth. The only thing I got to do is to pay closer attention to everything that happens to make it past her lips, and pray to god that I won’t forget anything else for quite some time, or until she forgets about this little incident.
"Your favorite color is brown." I said as my head sank below the quiet waves of my cold arms.
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