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“If you were a butterfly, what color would you bleed?” I ask. He looks at me like I just asked him to pluck his eyeballs out. Then his face softens a bit. “Blue,” he answers. “And you, Ms. Branson?” I think about my own question for a moment. I don’t want to be typical and say my favorite color like he did. “Orange,” I say. He studies my face. “Why orange?” “Because blue burns orange,” I say. “I figure no two colors could ever be closer than those igniting a flame.” — Nikki Godwin
If you were a butterfly, what color would you bleed?” I ask.
He looks at me like I just asked him to pluck his eyeballs out. Then his face softens a bit.
“Blue,” he answers. “And you, Ms. Branson?”
I think about my own question for a moment. I don’t want to be typical and say my favorite color like he did.
“Orange,” I say.
He studies my face. “Why orange?”
“Because blue burns orange,” I say. “I figure no two colors could ever be closer than those igniting a flame.