This Is Not A Love Story

blue and orange

'What's your favourite colour?' I ask him, legs swinging off of the concrete edge, 'mines orange'.
'Blue,' he says without missing a beat, 'because it goes with everything'.
His eyes are focused on the hazy London skyline, watching as the white lights of the city become brighter than the sky surrounding them.
'Do you think blue goes with orange?' I mumble, fingers fidgeting in my lap, the words tumbling off the edge of the roof as they leave my lips.
'No, not really,'
He shrugs thoughtlessly, not bothering to lift his eyes off of the city. A blanket of stars is pulled over our heads, bringing with it an uncomfortable chill.
'Do you?'
I bite my tongue, picturing evenings where the sky is clear. A steady stream of comforting orange light washes over the familiar pale blue, like waves washing over the shore; all consuming, serene, short lived. During those mere minutes, where time becomes mixed, blue and orange seem like the only two colours in the universe that ever really belonged together.
But he wasn't as familiar as the pale blue sky, and I wasn't as comforting as the orange evening light, and we weren't a natural phenomenon that had been occurring for eons. We were 17, and the London sky was a mess of dull grey rain clouds.
'No,' I say at last, 'I suppose you're right'.