The Orange Scarf

Orange has always made me anxious for some reason. It’s always up in your face, an attention stealer that forces a person’s pattern of vision to deviate from the normal sweeping path. It encloses an area quickly in a bright fire that strains your eyes, whether from the supple outer skin of an orange fruit or the paint clinging to the drywall in your bathroom. It gives me a pounding headache. I prefer calmer colours that are easy to gaze at for hours, like earthy greens and pastel hues. I think the reason behind my dislike for orange is because it’s so busy and with my own restless mind to worry about, the colour overstimulates my senses. 
      Ed’s wearing his smoky leather jacket today, per usual. I always call it smoky because he smokes cigarettes, puts the killing thing right between his teeth and inhales the inky death. I’m used to it now, and the scent of old flame melded together with cheap cologne almost excites me. That’s when I know Ed’s near. But today he wore a daring orange scarf, the hideous creature of a colour, the one that’s the metaphorical arrow in a crowd. Here he is, here’s Ed.