When he hurriedly calls me up at the kitchen window, to show me an September evening sky, I take my time wearing my tangarine shirt and dragging myself off bed.
He ushers me to kitchen with his hands on my shoulders like an excited child who has caught a firefly.
It's sunset and untimely grey clouds have crowded the horizon like a threatening mob. Every other moment clouds brandish their naked blades of lighening. Everything is bright orange- roads, cars, people, buildings, as if skies have crushed a huge orange to pulp and spilled it over the entire city.
'Beautiful, isn't it?' He whispers from behind, squeezing my shoulders gently.
'Gloomy!'
A couple of clouds give out distinct rumbling as a sign of protest.
'You know,' he says, wrapping his hands around my waist, 'it's as if the sky is basking in the glory of this shirt of yours!'
We experiment with the colors of sky the entire evening. We try if we could rob it off its tangerine hues.
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