The old man, up in the tenth floor never leaves his apartment. I see delivery trucks come by with groceries and pizza. His windows are never open, I see that when I play in the street after school. Jimmy dared me to go knock on the door one night. The door was plain white, unpainted like the rest of the families living in the building. So I knocked on the door. Just once. I'd heard things about the man on the tenth floor. Horrible things. But those things can't be true. He isn't a warlock or werewolf. No, he is just a man. Isn't he?
I knocked on the door, twice this time, and louder so he could hear me. Still nothing rustled. I knocked a third and final time, and on the third knock, the door opened. I stood there with my hand up about to knock, when he appeared in the doorway. And then I quickly put it down.
The man was at least 5 inches shorter than I was. He stared at me with dull grey eyes. "What is it you want?" he asked me. I was speechless. I stammered, and said, "Uhh...err... well, sir... jimmy dared me to.... to come...." The man raised an eyebrow and then started to laugh. He laughed low and wheezy. Then, demanded, "Come in here, I am trying to hang a photograph. I can't reach high enough, and my hands are getting to old to use a hammer."
He led me in, then motioned for me to come in. I wandered in. I carefully trod on the thick brown-shag carpet. The entrance led into a dining room and kitchen, which were dimly lit and filled with dark wood. The walls were filled with pictures. Pictures were everywhere. Pictures of a family. Many younger kids, surrounded by many couples. Kids' school portraits and family portraits. On the dining room table was a large glass pitcher filled to the top with bright green drink and filled with ice. The man led me to the back of the dining room and handed me a hammer and a single nail. There was a step ladder leading to a small patch of blank wall unclustered with photographs. I climbed the ladder and he passed me a photograph. A newborn baby in its mother's arms. It had a red frame and wire attached to the back for hanging. "Right there, next to the picture of the boy," the man motioned with his finger. Carefully, I placed the nail into the wall and then hung the picture from it. I lightly tapped the picture until it was straightened on the wall.
"Limeade?" The man stood behind him with two glasses, pouring the green drink into one of them. I wasn't sure what to say. I'd heard things, but it would be rude to refuse. I took a glass, and sipped. It was different than other things I'd tasted. Kind of acidic and sour. But the man told me all about his family. He was actually really nice. Not a werewolf or a warlock. I came back the next day, when he needed help with his television set. And I drank more limeade. I've visited him several times a week for many weeks. I really didn't like limeade in my first sip. But now, I've come to love limeade.
Next color.... cream.