Red.

As the sun rose, it was time to say Goodnight. The coffee that keeps her up every night, night after night, is just like her.

She was red, and it was espresso.

It was the kind of house, the newcomers end up in. if you’re insane rich, the kind who stink of money, the kind who count lose change in bills, probably have never seen a place like this. A small room, accommodates a bed, a multi-purpose table a small mirror and dressing hanging by the bedside and a wardrobe, all in one. No room for new, but new stuff came in, regularly. In pizza boxes, in shopping bags. They magically find their places. Under and over what already marked its territory!

The wardrobe is vivid, an expansive definition of she. Just like the coffee. The plethora of faces that she is, all neatly stacked, side by side. Each a different person, a different face of the many faced, just the coffee at the café. Some with crème, some with liquor. Some served hot, and some served in ice.

Red, she was called, was also Julia, cappuccino, the receptionist; also Sonja, the Ice latte, bartender, Mary, Ana, Lucy, Jane, Eva and everybody else. Like the Frappe, Mocha, Irish, Filter, American and every other. Each name associating a section, a class of the city. From the man who carries his home in a wheel cart, to the drivers of the expensive cars. From the butlers of the rich to the people who sit in the back seat and talk business, all knew her. But she was Red, not Eva, Sonja, not Ana, Jane, Lucy, Mary, or Julia.

Every night Red dressed in pink, and denim shorts, maybe hot pants, and black stilettos, would sit on the bed. Coffee after coffee, to keep her awake, for she knew there will be some William, or Tony or Adam, who with his pocket full with a day’s work will drop by. Or a Thomas, or a Larry with their fat chequebooks and even fatter billfold. Some with thousands to throw and some counting lose change would knock at her door. The David or the Michael who are caught up in work.

Red stayed up all night. Every night, she waited in her room. In the light of the Red Lamp that hung from the ceiling, she would get dressed. A pink tank top and Denim shorts, maybe hot pants. And black stilettos. Red would wait, in pink in blue and in her black.

They all came, just not him. With the crisp currency in her ears, she would lose herself. She would lose the black, the pink and the blue, for it was their pleasure that mattered. They never stayed, they had to leave. When morning came, Red was gone. A Julia or a Sonja stepped out to the world. And Eva would come, and Ana would come, by the time it was Dark, Red was home. She waited for him, he never did come. She waited for her Robin Hood. Another night gone.

Every morning she looked into the mirror, to check if she was Red, to see if she was different, Jane, Lucy or Mary. To see if she was the same, how he had known.