Mary is -

Mary is red.

Sometimes, she is the red of blooming roses that thrive under the sweet warmth of the sun's golden rays.

At night, in their bedroom, with his name on her lips and her body so warm beneath his touch, a soft blush on her cheeks as he caresses her, she is like the sweetest of wines, and he is addicted.

Other times, she is the opposite. Her eyes snap fire and the words on her tongue are harsh. She is loud and on fire and she is angry. She is the red of blood spilling from open wounds.

Mary is red.

Francis is -

Francis is blue.

His eyes are the sky that draws her in, she often tells him.

He is calm and steady and he is level-headed, at least most of the time. He is gentle and kind.

When she is angry and filled to the brim with heat, he is the soothing flow of water that puts her out, that sits her down and reasons with her.

Francis is blue.

Together, they are purple. A lilac sky.

And for a while, it works that way. Until everything pulls apart.

Then Mary's fire is extinguished, but it isn't because of his help.

It is because of what they did to her.

And she leaves him.

Conde breathes the fire back into her, she tells him. He is red, just like her. He makes her feel alive again. Allows her to feel her heart again.

Francis is blue, and without her he doesn't know what to do, but there is little he can say to bring her back.

She is red.

He is blue.

And she had decided that purple just wasn't for her.