in thirteen years (part 2/2)

In thirteen years, there will be a new fad: love languages expressed through colored collars:

red orange yellow green blue / gift touch time praise deed.

on may 3rd: the one red flower a poor man presents to his love will blossom redder and deeper than any rich man's ruby or louboutin lacquer. this is a lesson many lovers are learning, with their mouths as well as blood. children too, birthday money is all the more luckied by a red envelope.

on may 7th: the catcallers will grow savvy and target green girls—many literally green. but all girls know to avoid the uncollared. some men bluff with a collar, but others dig deep into their soul to match a color to it. this is a process of weeks, of months, of years. by the time they finish, some no longer feel the need to catcall. see, that boy with the yellow ascot wanted boys all along. the boy in the green tie smiles if you shout, “hey handsome!”

on may 15th: "how may i help you?" becomes blue*blue shortland for I love you so. they establish a barter economy, owed actions with no need for money. all is free, all is favors. it works so well that of course someone corrupts it. faux-blues take and are given but never return. this leakage is the first of many weaknesses

on june 27th: the yellow chokers must confront the lie of 'busyness'. they require reasons on digital signatures, on job applications, in interviews, anywhere. they give away calendar slots like kisses: rarely and deeply. the yellow chokers can’t stand lateness. they need proof. they want to know: Am I really important to you? If I were, you’d find a way. Put down your phone. Look at me. Is this the highest quality time you have to give? even silence is fine.

on july 11th: I will go on a date wearing orange and blue-striped-yellow. I hate green now. my second favorite color has been claimed and stolen, because talk is cheap. I burned many, tore them for dishrags, gave them to thrift stores.

friends ask me do you really like hugs? I guess i do. I have to, until it becomes the color of horny men. I feel their leers. they want to brush and tap and stroke and say I want that. so no, I hate orange and cull my closet. I pick a calming yellow boy i have to verbally remind that, yes, in bed, he can touch my hair.

july 11th: my boy, like me, is blue sometimes. sometimes wilted but always functional, we give each other practical presence and practical presents, blue/red and blue/gold. his large hands bear chocolate, comfort, hope, witness, all favors—everything that serves me serves him. or so he says, and I reflect that wisdom, souvenir, a task, all favors. his body’s continuity is for me a good deed.

on july 25th: we will all wear red and green. we ride sleighs through snowless grasslands, wield hammers and sickles to topple typants and bestow solidarity. labor and laughter, we drink and make merry. nobody remains still tonight. love is a compromise. everyone needs magis’ gift, white elephants and pink elephants. when we wake up, hungover, income inequality will be solved. but some will immediately jump to rebuild financial hills and valleys to stand on and gaze upon.

by august 10th, the fad will die down. Everyone is tired of caring and knowing, of the weight of kindness beyond Dunbar’s village. Let’s have a new Turning. It’s about time. Let the children uncover what their parents obscure and veil what their parents revealed, in rebellion.