Purple

It was a great evening. And what started as a small argument showed signs of building up into a heated row. 

“It’s violet!”

“It’s purple!”

“How can you say?”

“Violet is a Rainbow color. It has a great part in the spectrum. Purple is a mixture. It is brighter and flamboyant!”

Jack wondered what he did to get that color on the canvas in the first place, when he did the painting. Was it from the palette? Or was it just the Violet with off-white? He couldn’t remember. He could just say it was the most beautiful piece he ever made. Enough already! That’s it about the color. This wasn’t going anywhere. He gave a distant look at Sarah and she knew that he wanted to pull the screens to this silly argument. 

“Does it matter?"

Sarah blushed at him, remembering their first meet. He’d gotten orchids for her. And then rushed a few other memories. Grapes! She loved how they smelled and tasted. The vibrant purple of the juice, with the cool blue of her skirt on their first date. The first garden she visited, the first clot she got, the time when Jack took a blow to his eyes when they got drunk, and the tiara of her prom dress and the ever-so-delicious Black current ice cream. 

She looked back at the painting. 

“No, it doesn’t matter!” she said. 

She saw the bold, yet subtle, strong, yet serene, strokes of that color on the canvas. It was just like a mirror to her memories worth remembering. It amazed her how colors can sometimes become silver mirrors, breaking out of the canvas, stepping into their lives in silence.