Yellow
She'd never look at it the same way again. That was just the way Mimi was with memories. Smells were the worst; once she'd actually had to switch shampoos because the scent reminded her too much of an ex. Sometimes touch did it too. The feel of rough sheets against her cheek. The first snowflakes of the season stinging her nose and forehead. Occasionally, it was taste. The salt of tears. The pasty sweetness of lipstick against her teeth.
It was hardly ever color. At least, it wasn't until later.
Afterward, she couldn't look at street signs the same way. Or flowers. Or even the butter, after Roger had left it sitting on the counter too long and it had started to melt.
She knew somehow at the back of her mind why, every time she saw it, her stomach did a little flip-flop.
It was because, in her mind, it was the color of rust on the bathroom floor when the pain in her stomach drove her to her knees. It was the discoloration of her father's teeth as he leered at her, his sour-beer breath dizzying. It was the stains on the sheets when he was finished at night.
Later, it was the color of a few drops of escape in a syringe. Of the concealer stick she dabbed under her eyes to hide the dark circles. Of the faded bruises on the insides of her arms.
Afterward, it was the plastic of a pill bottle. The blankets on Roger's cot in the loft. The flame of a candle lit for a lost friend.