Work Text:
"The yellow is too loud. Or is it this noise? God, there's so much of yellow here. Can we get rid of it?"
She rolled her eyes and handed me a cold lemonade bottle, the outside of the glass was moist from all the condensation. Overhead, the sun radiated its beams, scorched skin sticky with sweat. The lingering taste of salt smoldered my nose, down my throat. Sour odor tickled my tongue as I sipped the lemonade. My head burst in hues of lemon and canary.
I glanced at her, the outline of her mocking face. There was a glint of amusement in her feline-like eyes, along the curve of her lips. The hem of her custard-colored dress fluttered in the summer breeze. Beads of sweat glistened on her shoulders to the smooth skin along her arms. I thought, I wanted to kiss them dry but the sun had beaten me to it. And she was so loud even with that tiny laughter. It was as if all of these yellow amplified her voice; melded in this hum-colored crowd of the summer festival. The poetーwas it O'hara?ーused that term, hum-colored, to describe the stream of New York City's cabs; buzzing noises of the engines imitating swarms of bees. Here, yellow was for the humming sound she made when she's in a good mood.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone was singing. A band or something took their place on the corner of the street. The music was dyed in the color of morning sun. Rippled light illuminated their figures. Everything was simmered in noisy glow. She grabbed my hand and started to run. It's summer , she said between gasps and laughter. Let us be young and loud .
I ran behind her, holding tight onto her hand. The strands of her hair danced in the wind. And the summer festival carried on. And the faraway song serenaded our steps. And all the hues engulfed our beings, down to the bones.
And it was all yellow.