There is something about red on white.
She wonders, if you froze her words as they left her mouth, would they be as beautiful as these scattered moments of ice? When she reaches to pick up the berries, her fingers scrape the tarmac, leave thick marks across the fragile white. Her mother always painted her fingernails – two rows of slick red insect backs, dancing through the coldest of winters.
Inspired by Lila’s response to the question What would feature in your perfect Winter Garden?