What does it mean that he's green? He's not mean and green. Or lean and green. He's not envious, or young. Or grassy.
There's just this greenish glow around him. It emanates from his eyes,
his face. His ears. It glows brighter when he's sleeping, or hungry.
I pull him closer. Touch his lips, his tongue, with mine. I expect him
to taste like broccoli. Or asparagus. A sour apple.
He tastes like none of these things. Although, I catch a hint of parsley in the aftertaste.
I probe deeper. Climbing past his teeth, his tongue, into his throat. I
tickle the little hangy thing at the back of his mouth. I dangle under
it, nuzzle it, nurse on it. Rub it between my breasts and thighs. Take
huge Tarzan swings on it, back and forth. Back and forth. Slide up and
down it like a stripper on Main Stage. I position my bucket and try to
milk it. He sneezes. Then coughs. Then spits me out.
"What?" I ask. Like he's the one with the problem.
He always snorts. Not in a funny way, not when he's laughing. More like
a bull in the ring. I expect him to hunch over and dig and drag his
feet across the carpet. I wait for the smoke to ooze from his nose. I
wait for the charge.
I throw up a red cape, and say, "Torro! Torro!" He just rolls his eyes and walks away.
"What?" I ask. Because he's the one with the problem.
See, he's green. Green is the opposite of me.
I prefer orange or yellow. Or red. Something feral and hot. I like
colors to wrap me, burn me. I like the singe on my skin, the smell of
the tiny hairs on my arms when they ignite. I like to savor the blaze
in my sleep.
I can't do that with green.