I've decided to write little stories about people I meet every day, or at least the possible stories.

Red

The young woman behind the counter looked up from her cash register and laughed as the customer in front of her wondered aloud if she was buying too many red things for her boyfriend. "He looks great in red, you see," the customer explained. The cashier grinned and proceeded to fold the red sweater and stuff it into a yawning plastic bag. "Thank you for shopping here and see you again," she chirped as the customer walked away from the counter.

Allison hadn't laughed because the customer's boyfriend looked great in red. What stirred her mirth was the memory of herself, not too long ago, having once bought too many red gifts for the one she loved. Oh yes, the personage of her affections looked divine in any item of red, be it red shirts or red shoes. Allison once had her life saturated with sights and thoughts of red. After all, red was the colour of passion, and of love. And Allison certainly loved with a passion. Thoughts of her love consumed her waking moments. She woke each morning never remembering her dark, troubled dreams in the night, and she liked to think that her dreams were of her one true love. She went out each day looking forward to seeing her love resplendent in red.

But she also learnt one thing - that red, not green, was the colour of jealousy. She knew the hot, pulsing redness that enveloped her mind and the world around her upon the realisation that the one she loved would look in every other place for love except with her. She found that red was the only colour she saw behind her eyelids whenever she shut her eyes to drive out the sight of the one she loved caught in tender, intimate moments with another.

Red was also the colour of rage, and of blood. Allison learnt this all too well in the times when jealousy turned to anger, and she could hardly bear the heat that seared inside her. She also learnt this each time she slowly and lovingly etched the name of the one she loved onto the pale skin of her wrist. She found that the trick was to draw blood each time she carved over cuts that had healed - each new scab would make the beloved letters of that cherished name stand out thicker and clearer.

Allison remembered the Saturday she arrived home to find a pile of returned gifts sitting at the foot of her front door. She felt her heart grow hot as she stood looking down at the haphazard stack of objects in shades of scarlet, burgundy, cherry, wine, rose, coral, russet, vermillion, sanguine and rust. Among the gifts, every item in dizzying shades of red, were woven bracelets, hand-drawn cards, soft toys, heart-shaped boxes, scented candles, cloth roses, pretty slippers, dainty little panties, and one lock of strawberry blonde hair bound with a crimson ribbon. The sting of rejection spread its poison over her rapidly until she felt her entire body on fire. She knew all the gifts had been returned by one person - the woman she loved and desired for her own. One item stood out from the rest; it was not a returned gift. It was a simple sheet of white paper and it stood out pale and sober among the tumble of red madness. Allison picked it up and read the three lines written on it. "You sicken me. Stop sending me things. I'm not like you, you lesbian shit."

Vehement scarlet flooded her senses as her rage loosed in a stream of lunatic screams. She lunged at the pile of returned gifts and dug her fingers into them, ripping some, hurling others, pounding at whatever remained. She hardly noticed the arms that came to encircle her and restrain her thrashing limbs. The following chain of events never stayed in her memory, and all she could now recall was coming to her senses and realising that she was in the living room of her home, her arms and legs held down by her father, her mother and her brother who were grimacing with the effort. As she stopped struggling, she saw the expression on her mother's face change from distress to horror and disgust as she slowly moved her hand away from her daughter's left wrist where the long sleeve had hiked up during the struggle, staring at the bulging, pink lines that marred the skin there.

A shake on her shoulder broke her from her reverie. "Closing time, Ally. Stop dreaming," muttered the store manager before walking away.

Allison tucked a stray lock of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and, with a heavy sigh, closed the counter for the night.