In the novel I was reading this morning, I misread someone’s dress “the color of persimmon” as “the color of permission.” I like that so much better.
It set off a cavalcade of metaphor — not all good, mind you — in my head.
a chair that beckoned your secrets
salami with garlic so strong it hurt your feelings
anticipation that rotated like a pie display
a martini the color of heartache
well-worn sneakers in the shape of recovery
a violin solo melancholy as a September evening
danger that kept coming around like a gas station hot dog, persistant and ominous
Okay. Your turn!