Her name was Ruby. She loathed it. The color a deep red; deep as the wounds she carried with her. She was tired of being told it was a strong color. The only thing she felt strongly about was her anger and resentment for her mother. A prostitute who wore red because the men she accompanied prized the color. Was this a joke she was playing on her? Ruby means nothing to me. It’s blood color; a sign of death. A death I would take pleasure in.
The doorbell rings. Flowers from my Tom arrive.
Oh no, red roses.
Challenge from Julia’s Place : http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/04/30/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-40/