Here is the second installment to favorite color. It's been quite a while. Please rate and review! Thanks!

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"Pure-hearted?" My eyes form a question at the sunny blonde across the counter from me.

"Yea! You're one of the most pure-hearted people I've ever met, Ann!" Her grin doesn't lie, she's being completely serious.

My face turns an interesting shade of scarlet, and I lean over, hoping my flaming hair would disguise it. I laugh embarrassedly and mutter, "What does that even mean?"

She giggles at my reaction, and says thoughtfully, "You…you're innocent, you know?"

I lift my head, one eyebrow rising with it. "Innocent? I'm not that innocent. I'm married, after all."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Does she seriously not understand?

"Think about it, Claire."

She looks at me curiously, and then laughs. "Your innocence is more than skin-deep."

There is a silence following her words, I don't even bother to dignify that with a comment. She smiles expectantly, and when it becomes clear I'm not about to break the silence anytime soon she gets up.

I watch her. "Leaving already?"

"Yea," she pulls her coat on, and suddenly snaps her fingers, turning to me abruptly.

I laugh at the enlightened look on her face, "What is it?"

She blinks, my laugh throwing her off a bit, "I remembered something I have to ask you!"

"Ok, shoot."

"What's your favorite color?"

I blink. Now, I'm the one who's thrown off. "Pardon?"

"Your favorite color! What is it?"

"White." The word seems to come of its own volition.

"White?" She stares at me thoughtfully.

I touch the ribbon in my hair of that particular color uncertainly, suddenly feeling shy under her appraising gaze. "Um, yes?"

She smiles. "Ok! Well, tell me why tomorrow!"

"…why?" I am somewhat dumbfounded. Claire isn't one to let things lie until tomorrow. Why isn't she grilling me for answers now? Not that I mind.

"Just think about it, okay? Well, I gotta go, bye, Ann!" And suddenly she is gone, leaving me to my thoughts.

Why had I said white? White. White isn't even a color really. The very opposite, in fact. White is nihilism, the absence of color.

White is clean. Untouched by all other colors, pure unfiltered light. Bland to some, but beautiful in its own right. White is purity. White is surrender. White is innocence. White is healing. White is death.

Why white? Why did it matter? It doesn't matter.

Then why had my voice been so sure when I said white?

I touch my ribbon absent-mindedly; it was given to me as a child by my mother. I never take it out, except to sleep and shower, of course. It's all I have left of her.

Well, that and my wedding dress.

I think back to my wedding.

White is the dress I wear.

White is the ribbon in my hair.

White is my face as my new husband roughly throws me to the bed.

He is too harsh. Too rough. Can't he be gentle? He was so gentle, so loving at the ceremony. Please! Please don't hurt me. You're scaring me. Stop! You're hurting me!

A scream pierces the air. Who was that? Was it me who screamed? Was it him? He's on the far side of the bed, groaning in pain, hand clamped over his broken nose.

My breath is labored. I look down at myself. My dress! My mother's wedding dress! Stained! An unsightly blotch of deep red glares back at me, seeping in, spreading like a plague on the snowy white fabric. Who's blood is that? Is it his? Is it mine?

Giant tears roll down like liquid flame, searing my cheeks. It's ruined. Through my blurred vision I stare at the stain, praying it will disappear, as it spreads further. Please, please, please, go away.

I shift and pause, breathless. My eyes pass over something. A discoloration. An imperfection. A stain, old and forgotten, washed so many times it was nearly invisible, but in the right lighting…

Yes, it was real. Old and faded to the faintest of browns, but there it was. Evidence. I was not the first, nor would I be the last.

He has been watching me. Guilt and sorrow squirm in him like worms. He crawls silently to me as I cry and holds me. Soft apologies are whispered into my hair. I shut my eyes.

I do what I can. I wash the stain with vigor. But it does not fully come out. It fades as I knew it would. An imperfection in an otherwise stainless dress. But somehow, it does not diminish its beauty. It is barely there, noticeable only if you take the time to look for it. And if you have taken the time to get so close to it, to see all its imperfections, by then it doesn't matter.