Bad colours

She gripped the table tightly, her knuckles turning an ugly pale shade. The wine in front of her turned as cold as she felt inside. “It was just once,” he had said. “Should I be happy that it wasn’t twice or thrice,” she thought bitterly. “She meant nothing to me,” he added. “Well, she obviously had some significance to put a four-year relationship into the deepest gutter,” she threw out. She removed her shocked fingers, bringing the brownish pink back to them. He sat there innocently, sipping his red wine as if he had just told her that they were missing a movie tonight. She saw darkness wherever she looked. On his face, on his hands, and even his clothes. Her exposure to the media instigated her next gesture. She grabbed her wine glass and threw it on his light blue shirt. The red liquid made it a bad dark purple.