“What do you call that colour?”
“Interesting, I’ve never heard of that colour before.”
“You only asked me what I call it.”
“Oh, what do other people call it?”
“I think prefer blush.”
“That’s why I call it blush.”

A long and silent pause follows.

“My hands are still tied.”
“Yes, I know how to tie knots.”
“It hurts a little.”
“I must have tied the knots very well then.”

Cathy sighs, and the room is silent once more.

“What do you call that colour again?”
“Yes, that’s it, blush.”
“What do you really want to ask me Cathy?”
“Could you untie me now?”
“I could untie you, but it’s not time.”
“Blush you say?”
“Yes Cathy, for the ninth time, I call it blush.”
“But other people call it ruby?”

David walks across the grey stone floor to where Cathy is seated. He slaps her cheek, hard, with his open hand. A loud crack echoes off the dark, windowless walls.

“I call that ruby.”


4 thoughts on “Blush

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