Remembered: The Harlot

There was one color I was not allowed to wear as a child. My father said it was the color of harlots, and to wear it would be sending the wrong message to the boys at school. “You’re not that type of girl,” he used to say.

But I was. I was that type of girl. I was hot, I was angry, I was bloodlust.

My parents got divorced when I was 18. From the day I was told he was leaving, I was suddenly very interested in purchasing a new wardrobe. I became a fire engine sauntering down the street. I inspired fiery passion in every boy I came in contact with, whether it was with my new low cut dress, my new strappy heels, or my new tight capris. My new look was very definitely sending a message, my own version of a scarlet letter. I needed to let the world know exactly who I am.

Right before I left for college, I bought a new car, a Camaro that matched the flush of my cheeks. I had read that prostitutes in Europe would use vehicles of the same color in order to attract their clients. My new car had the same effect on the boys at college.

This is the color of harlots, huh Daddy? Let me show you how much of a whore I can really be.

The Topic:
“Give me a memory of the color red. Do not write the word 'red' but use words that engender the color red when you hear them. For example: a ruby, a tomato, fire, blood.


Writing has the elegance of mathematics. Try to write economically. A red cherry is redundant. Cherry is enough unless it’s one of the yellow ones from Washington state. Then it’s a yellow cherry. But, otherwise, cherry immediately wakes up the color red in the mind.”