UNEDITED JET LAG

AN ODE TO THE COLOR RED

Red. Oh so...reddish.
The color of a radish, but usually lighter in hue.

A sweaty cheek beckons your arrival with sweet clumps of salt juice.
I dab at them with mine hanker-cloth and wonder why I keep a sweat-covered rag in my pocket. Shocking that women won’t come near me…really.
Packet of tissues next time I go out in heat like this. It really is a sky-high sauna out here.

Red.

Like the center circle of the flag of Japan. Perhaps the ‘center’ modifier was unnecessary back there. There is only one circle on the flag of Japan. Simple. I like.

Like the sun. Granting us orange-y red-like warmliness on a summer’s day such as this. Prompting one to disrobe and frolic, arms agape and flailing, through a field of swaying, multicolored crepe-paper streamers wiggling up toward the blue expanse. The wind-stroked paper makes a crunching sound like that of a cornfield set ablaze by a wandering arsonist.

And the birds…

Oh! The birds!

They won’t stop swooping and squawking in my face. Diving down trying to steal my sandwich. I only have twenty minutes for lunch and really, with the heat and birds…chicken salad inside tomorrow.

The French call it La Rouge. Feminine. Like a woman or particular types of deodorant.

A symbol of love and war and blood and stop signs.

A tomato. A cherry. Cherry Tomatoes.

A red M&M.

Red.

Odorless.

Red.

The color of my old skis. What is someone supposed to do with a pair of old skis anyway? Donate to the less fortunate? Do you know how expensive lift tickets are these days? I’m surprised anyone can get out on the slopes. And forget about lunch at the lodge. Best be packing chicken salad.

Red.

Like the grapes in my chicken salad…which I will omit from the recipe next time. Their sweetness overbears the salt of the chicken and mayonnaise. It’s an art, really, making a good chicken salad. I thought I had it mastered, but once again, just like at the DMV yesterday, I was so desperately wrong. Bastards. 40 minutes I waited. For what?

The DMV’s logo is red.

Red.

Like my heart.
And I assume most other normal, non-alien people’s hearts.
Beating for, on average, 72 years or something until I croak and it stops and turns brown.