Red is the color of love and blood. She supposes that's meant to be irony.
Or maybe it's meant to be complementary.
It's the color of other things too, of course. Flowers and candies and couches and rouge and wine and fruits and hair ribbons and rubies and radishes and anger and lips of prostitutes and pain and the bloodied flesh in the grinder and carnality and her hair and his barber chair and the streaks in the sky just before sunset.
So maybe it's not irony or complementary. Maybe it's just the fates yet again toying with their minds.
