I stood by the podium, waiting for my friend to arrive, while the barista prepared my iced tea. The sepia walls complimented the scent of burnt, ground and brewed espresso beans that saturated the air. It has never been out of belligerence, but rather necessity, that I typically choose tea over coffee. The fact is that coffee has always made my stomach churn like a smelter struggling to reduce ore.
While the barista and I discussed novels, like we always have, I fiddled with a black straw and waited. Strangling the plastic tube flat between two fingers, letting it spring back, and squeezing again until it split. We were both disappointed with a book that we had anticipated would be much better. I grew impatient as I waited.
Finally as the iced tea was handed over, Skye entered the shop. She was named after the mountainous Scottish island, and not the occasionally blue mass that hovers above us. We exchanged greetings, she ordered, glanced over, and said with a smirk “I see you are having another green day”.
Great, another green day. A green day is a random attack of my subconscious on my wardrobe. On these days strangers make clever jabbing comments like “let me guess, your favourite colour is green”. It isn't a question, so I don't answer. It is only a problem because on a green day every article of clothing worn by me is predominantly green, yet little effort is made again by me to coordinate the hues. Lime, fern, emerald, forest, kelly, olive and even chartreuse. If it is green, it matches well enough, no?
Skye doesn't perceive green to be as flexible a colour as I do. Could I fight a green day? Probably. Maybe. Then why don't I? Because the teasing that Skye provides is amicable, not offensive. Standing by the podium, with my drink dripping condensation in the heat of my hand I felt, well, fortunate. Fortunate to have a friend that will stand so near me, even when my subconscious dresses me akin to a drunk on St. Patrick's Day.
