If her life could be story-boarded out like they do in the movies, Ginger’s would be hand-colored in burnished bronze, chartreuse and lilac. Exotic jelly beans, not snow-cone blue and apple red. Acutely aware of shades and values, she hated when she had to pick a favorite color. Green. What’s that? Acid, forest, olive, mint, lime, seafoam, seamist, blue-green, green-blue, algae, ocean, and on what day the ocean? For god’s sake, she needed subtlety, nuance. She couldn’t even completely buy into Feng Shui because it wasn’t color-specific enough. Beige? What is that? Mocha she could understand. But f***ing beige? Carmel, sand, café au lait. Come on. Add some texture at least: warm oatmeal. Is there a prettier word than Cerise by the way? Cherry-dark, sweet, goes with chocolate, pinot noir, scuffed brown leather boots and the tingling scrape of a man’s scruff against your flushed cheek. His earthy smell of bonfires and cloves. Ruddy. Randy. In from the fields, carrying cherries, ready to take off his soft suede jacket and nuzzle your neck. See how great Cerise is? Ginger will name her children Cerise and Chartreuse. They will have layers, smells, tastes. Her girls will be like little decadent Black Forrest cakes, standing out from the vanilla masses.