The journal looked small on the dining room table. She scowled at it. What was it her mother had said? That every newly single woman needed a journal.
"There will be nights when there is no one else but you and a pen."
Stupid journal, she thought to herself petulantly, as she brushed the cover with her slim fingers. The purple leather goaded her. Purple like bruises, like the capes of queens, like the sky as night lifts into dawn.
At least it's not a blue journal, she mused, as she definitely felt blue. She opened it and sat to write.
The next color is rust.