red

one.

I heard the faint sound of the instrument drifting from the back room of the Meeting Centre late one night, and of course, I had followed it, for I couldn't resist the cello's beautiful melody. I allowed the music to lead me towards its location, walking as if I were in some sort of trance, which, looking back now, I do believe I was. I walked and walked for what seemed like miles, until finally I found myself peering into a pitch black room, the sound of the cello louder than ever. I couldn't tell if it was a recording, or a live person playing the instrument, but there was only one way to find out. I quietly opened the door, the cello now at its loudest, and flipped on the light switch.
There I saw him.
A striking young man, perhaps not much older than I, was playing away on the massive cello. He didn't stop at my presence; he didn't even acknowledge my entrance. It was as if when he was playing, nothing else mattered. It was just him and the cello.
He seemed tall and lean, and had flaming-red hair that flopped in all directions. The boy, I noticed, wasn't looking at his fingering or even straight ahead, but he looked upwards, towards the ceiling. I stood and watched him play for a good five or ten minutes, until, abruptly, the boy with the red hair stopped playing.

"Who's there?" He asked, looking in my direction. But his eyes never fell directly upon me. Instead, his head moved in all directions, his eyes gliding over me several times.

And it was in that moment I realized: this boy, with the flaming-red hair, didn't even notice I had ever turned on the lights, because in his world, there were no such things as lights.

"You played beautifully." I said after awhile. His face shifted slightly to where he thought my voice had come from.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"My name's Anne Alice. I work here. And, you are?"

Several moments passed before the boy opened his mouth to speak again.

"Thomas." He said flatly, uncertainty ringing in his voice.

"Well, Thomas," I said calmly, "I've never seen or heard someone play quite as you had. Very beautiful." I took a few steps toward him.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

A couple more moments of silence passed before I cleared my throat lightly, preparing for the next bold attempt in conversation.

"Your hair is red." I told him.

He frowned.

"I don't know what red looks like."

"It's simple, really." I said, taking many more steps forward and placing myself in the chair nearest him, his bright green eyes following the sound of my every move.
"Red. It's a colour, obviously. To me, it symbolizes passion. Think of something that makes you passionate. If those feelings were a colour, they would be red."

Thomas scrunched up his brows in agitation and confusion.

"But, that still doesn't tell me what red looks like."

I moved closer.

"Red, also, sometimes symbolizes love. Red roses, red dresses, red everything. Love and passion are two very powerful things, just like the colour red. Your hair is red, Thomas. Say that."

"What?" He asked, puzzled.

"Say that your hair is red."

"But-"

"If you don't say it aloud, Thomas, you will never believe that you have red hair."

He took a deep, shaky breath. Then said, "Look, I don't know what you're doing, but saying that my hair is red won't help me understand what it looks like."

He began to feel around for his cello case.

"Your eyes are green." I told him.

He looked up, frustrated.

"Green is my mum's favourite colour." I continued, "It's the colour of the grass and trees, want to know why?"

He blinked.

"Because," I began. "Because green is the colour of life, I'd say. Most plants are green, and we breathe because of plants. That's one reason why we are alive. Your eyes are the brightest green I've ever known. They are filled with so much life, Thomas."

He turned his head away, mouth open, and stared straight ahead. A few silent moments passed and I began to wonder if I should have gotten up and left, but then he asked me, "What colour are your eyes?"

I smiled.

"Brown."

"Brown?"

"Yes. Brown sometimes resembles dead things. It's the colour the grass and plants turn when they die. Fuit turns brown when left out for too long. Brown isn't the prettiest of colours. I don't care for it much but-"

"Your eyes resemble death?"

"Sure." I sighed.

His face contorted once again with confusion.

"Their meaning is the opposite of mine." He said as he turned his face towards mine again. "Opposites attract."

I chuckled, as did he.

"Scientifically speaking." He added quickly, ducking his head.

"Of course." I replied.

And it was right then, in that moment, I looked into Thomas's handsome face, and little did I know that I had already fallen so recklessly in love.