I remembered her colour, most of all. It was Sunfire Red #7. She didn't wear it casually, always asking me if she looked slutty after she applied it. I would never answer her outloud, just place an arm around her waist and usher her outside, to where our transportation waited. I always did think that the colour was too bold, making her stand out against my dark suit and tie. But I didn't mind so much. She was an attention whore, and I was simply baggage, or a service to carry her baggage, when we went on longer trips. I wasn't the ladies' man, nor the charmer. Later,though, when we were alone, suffocating on our own silence or screaming against our own drilling accusations, I would charm the snakes from her eyes and the venom from her lips. I wondered just how she covered her writhing resolve at the finest parties, where the red kiss of her lips poisoned even the most wary of minds. She had plagued me, from that very first day. An umbrella hat had allowed shade for her delicate skin, while rose-tinted glasses dimmed her eyes. And the one thing that had struck me like a dart between my eyes was her fire-engine red, burning of desire, late-august lips. And I remember the very last day I had seen her in that shade, seen her at all, and she had asked me that one last time if she looked like a slut and I had smiled and said yes, darling. And I love you more for it. I had pulled her close to me then, and kissed her, trying to suck out the poison that had plagued me for so long. I remember walking out that door, as she stood there, hair fluffed the wrong way, and dress ruffled. I remember that lipstick had stayed right in its place, unsmudged across her face, falling in a perfect line with her lips, and I realized that I would never make that lipstick smear, no matter how much I tried. I closed the door, finding refuge in the dim grey walls of the hall between our apartments. Never would I forget Sunfire Red #7.