Blue

Mrs. Baker greeted me at the front door wearing a blue chiffon dress, silver-tipped and pointed glasses from the ‘50s, and blue-gray hair – that same blue hair rinse that Aunt Matilda and Aunt Hagatha used in the early ‘70s when they came for dinner on Thanksgiving.

“Won’t you come in, young man,” she said, her chins bouncing along with her smile. “My, what a handsome son Mr. and Mrs. Williams have! Aren’t you precious? How old are you, my dear?”

“I’m nineteen. I’m a sophomore at B.C.,” I said, trying to be helpful. Mother always told me to be polite with older people, especially women. Did she imply that I could be rude to men? True, men were usually shits, so why even try with them? But ladies, especially ladies with blue hair …

“And what’s your name? I met your older sister.”

I grimaced. I always hated telling people my name. “William.”

She looked down, touched her finger to her lips, and then smiled. “How clever of your parents. Do come sit down.”

I went inside and followed her into the living room – periwinkle blue wall-to-wall carpeting, pale blue walls, a dark blue tailored sofa, and two dark blue high-backed chairs. The drapes breathed a sigh of relief into the room with their blue-white floral pattern. I felt as though I’d walked into an old lady version of the whale tank at Sea World.

“Of course,” she said, “I’m taking all of the furniture with me, and the wall hangings. But you will have this lovely carpeting and draperies. Your mother has simply raved about the décor in the house.”

Mother would. But William knew that as soon as they moved in, the blue would go. She preferred rust oranges, greens, and yellows. Like a nightmare from the ‘70s, even if that was nearly fifteen years ago. Why did grown-ups like to live in the past?