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Now reading
The New Grey
It's black, it says here, but not jet, not shiny, more the charcoal black old family snapshots burn, the dark of the cathedral vault aswarm with pigeons muted to an expensive almost-blue-black. See a woman in black? See me touching her shoulder? We weren't friends, but . . . But what? Hear my words blow out like lamps in series down a mine shaft? The colour of the coal dust rising up to gag me is this new shade, exactly. Can we discuss this? I need to get fluent in grey if I want to survive. I need a job to earn enough to buy that shirt in the same unsayable shade that hid in the wardrobe in a room I woke in as a child.