xi. Red
When he was four, he was taught his primary colors. Red, yellow, blue. Fast forward several decades, and he's standing at the door of her apartment, red roses in hand, his gaze shifting from cerulean blue wall to cerulean blue wall. She opens the door, and he is captivated. Blood red dress conforming to her body's every curve, a curtain of golden hair falling on bare shoulders, blue eyes full of warmth. He wants to kiss her, but takes her to the White House instead. Perhaps it's just good use of foreshadowing. He pulls her to dance with him instead.