The Purple House
by Andromache Kokkinou ︎︎︎Every morning you wake up thinking of the purple house. Today you stand up and look through your bedroom window to check if it’s still there. It is a purple two-story house with a porch and with purple flowers growing in its neat garden. You wear a tracksuit and sneakers and walk down the stairs. While having breakfast, you ask your mother for the hundredth time to tell you who lives there and if you can visit them. Your mother ignores you and keeps browsing clothes on her tablet while sipping her black coffee. You clean up the crumbs from your plate, put on your backpack, and walk out the door.
You walk past the bus stop, into the clearing at the edge of the hill. A good three hundred meters into the clearing you look for an upturned stone. Beneath it, in a shallow hole, there is a small tank of gasoline and a matchbox. You take off your clothes and shoes, lay them on the pit, and light them on fire. The flames rise, their warmth caressing your skin. The loud crackling fills you with electricity. It doesn’t take long for the clothes to turn into ashes. You throw dust on the fire to put it out, hide your tools, cover the pit with some stones, and dash off in your underwear.
You walk back and past the purple house. You peek through the window. There is purple tapestry on the walls, a purple dining table, purple chairs with tasseled cushions, and photos in purple frames. On the table, you can see a bowl of grapes and a bottle of wine. The door opens and a tall woman is standing in front of you. She wears a purple caftan with purple sandals and a purple bandana keeps her long hair from falling over her eyes. She looks at you standing there almost naked. “It’s too hot today, isn’t it?” She offers you a glass of cold lemonade. You run away.
Tomorrow is the first day of the summer break. You decide to lay in bed all day until you start getting hungry. Someone’s knocking on your door. You rush and open without checking first. It is the purple woman. “I noticed you had no clothes on the other day.” She hands you a purple dress. You try it on, on the spot, and it fits. “My mom is not at home.” She waves goodbye as you close the door. You get upset in your stomach. You take off the dress and rush to your bedroom where you spend the day reading about colors. Her house is lavender; her shoes are magenta; the curtains are lilac; the wine is burgundy.
Your mom calls you downstairs. She hands you a package without looking at you. “No need to try them on. They all fit. Just wear something.” She then heads out again.
You know it is late from the magenta, orange, and red colors in the sky. You raise your head from the sweaty pillow and look across to the lavender house. On the porch, your mother and the purple woman are talking. It’s too far to tell their expressions. You want to turn blind and deaf and curl up like a baby, but you can’t stop looking. The woman offers your mother a drink and they sit down. Soon they’re nibbling from a plate and touching each other on the arm with an open palm, the light push that means they’re into deep conversation. You’re waiting there, your whole body itching, as their outlines disappear into the night.