The Salmon Reagan is a very putrid salmon colored flower. It almost looks like a daisy and not a very beautiful one at that. The flower is terrible in appearance all the way around. It does not have an appealing color, nor does it have a very beautiful way of appearing.
The flower is a pale and sickly looking flower. Some people may find the pale orange color wondrous and pretty, but I think that the color is the ugliest looking one I have ever laid eyes on in my life. While the faded nature of the color seems to provoke feelings of calmness within people, sometimes a muted color does just the opposite in people.
There was this girl in my math class back in junior high. She was the brightest girl I had ever met and had bright pink hair to prove it. She was nerdy and we call loved that about her, we being all of those who were in the class or even had just met her. Nothing she did seemed boring or uninteresting. Sometimes, I look back at that crazy math class and wonder how it is that I made it through the class alive. Sure, she was there to pull me along, but that’s barely anything.
Anyhow, there was this one day in which she went ahead and decided that she was feeling a less vibrant color. It did not seem to be fitting to her at all. However, she did so and she rocked that orange hair of hers. I thought it wouldn’t work. She, gladly, proved me wrong.
When I asked her about the color, she shrugged her shoulders and declared it was simply because she didn’t want the color to fade on her. She said that since it began in a faded nature that she did not have to worry about the color progressively waning in vibrancy as the days went on and the color did not. The rationale was sound, but seemed strange for hair color.
There was always a methodical approach to everything with her. I was always in awe of how she was so organized, but I never saw the appeal of it. I was more of the type of girl who wanted to have a goal and a date on which to complete it, but go about it as I pleased.
This was not the case back in the town whose street names were anything except for ordinary. People there liked to be able to plan things out. This was one of many reasons that I could not figure out how to fit in there. People were nice enough, but I knew I didn’t belong.
I was still stuck by the door. My wrist was bent over the doorknob and I hoped that it would not be the only thing I could do in my moments of fear. I wanted to be able to twist open the door and barge through the door. Maybe then I could find a decent spot in which to hide and stay hidden while the stranger at the door wanders into and throughout this house.
I knew that I wanted to do more than stand there, but I was at a lack of what to do.
My manners wanted me to run as fast as I could to the door and let the person in. It may not be my house, but I knew that, as long as I was in the house and pretending it was my home away from home, I should at least act the part of a lovely hostess. I also did not want to because I would not have known where to find simple things such as drinks or dishes. Were the guest at the door, I would not know how to make the person something to eat or on what to serve it.
Still, there was a chance that the man (or woman, since I would be a fool only assuming one or the other must be the only option) waiting for an answer at the door knew things I didn’t and could help me on my quest to find some information about Steven. So I go downstairs.
My feet stomp down on the steps and I am fearful that the person will begin to go ballistic as the person may be someone who is supposed to be here and I am someone who is most certainly not supposed to be here. Yet, the person may be amicable and become delighted that now there is someone else with whom to share the large, spacious, empty house.
There are more knocks at the door. “Hello? Anyone home?” the voice that seems to be one belonging to a man asks. More knocks follow. He seems much too impatient. I contemplate if I should answer and how I should answer if I choose to do so. “Let me in. You know me.”
The funny thing was that I actually didn’t know who he was, but I did not care enough to tell the poor guy that. He seemed to really want to get in. I did not know why and did not care why he was persistently knocking and attempting to enter in. Again, the guy knocks. I grab hold of the handle. My other hand resides patiently on the deadbolt lock. I wait for another comment.
Patiently, I wait. There must be something I’m missing. “Hello? Come on, you know that this happens nearly every day. Come on, you don’t have to lock me out just because I lost my house key yet again. This is really cruel, man. Come on, let me in,” the mysterious voice hollered and groaned. Although the guy behind the door I stood reluctantly behind was able to produce loud knocks that shook the door, he gave up much too quickly and whined very boldly.
There was an uneasiness that overcame me. I wanted badly to open up the door for him, but I was increasingly scared that he would see that I was not the friend whom he was expecting to see and would then yell at me. I was not in the mood to be yelled at by a complete stranger.
Suddenly, I take initiative. The impulse decision to open the door runs through my mind and seems to be happening in slow motion even though it is only a matter of seconds. The task is one swift motion and I know that’s the truth. My ring finger on my left hand places itself on the deadbolt with my left thumb. My right hand is poised completely on the doorknob and as I turn the deadbolt I also turn the doorknob. I listen for a click which seems to be hiding itself from me in an effort to prove that I was incapable of accomplishing anything on my own. Eventually, the click comes, signaling that the deadbolt is now open. I twist open the doorknob and feel resistance from the other side. I let go of the doorknob. The door flings open in my face.
There was nothing I cared about more than making sure I did not get hit. Yet, I was still in a state of shock from the previous door knocking. This caused me to stand behind the door as it flew right at me. I should have moved. I knew that I should have moved. Everything running through my mind was telling me to move away. I did not move. I got hit by the door. It hurt.
I began to open my mouth to scream and immediately placed my hand over my mouth so that my scream could be muffled enough to maybe not even be heard by the stranger. Still, this person was there. I forgot this was going to remain an issue. The guy could push the door again.
It was only a fear of mine, one which I did not expect to happen. Yet, I saw him move past me when I looked out of the corner of my eye. He walked past me with a confident stride and then pivoted and looked behind him. When he was walking past me, I took the time to look at his assets. They were very nice. I think I commented on them aloud. I am not sure if I actually did, though. Anyhow, he went back towards me and I went further into the door, up against the spot where the door touches the wall. He pushed the door back. I was unsure of what I should do, since the door should fling back at him if he were to push it with nothing behind him.
I considered pushing the door back but then did not do so. There was an inclination within me to become bolder in my actions and proclaim to the world that, I was, in fact, there behind the door and I was here to stay. I should have stood my ground and asserted myself and not allowed for any questions to be made about my life choices at this point in time.
What I had neglected to consider was that the door would also hit me and bounce off of me just as it would if there were nothing behind it. Another facet I had ignored was that the door would hurt when it hit me. Of course, the door made contact with me and hit me. I knew I could not pull the door back, but I longed to. But the door swung back and I was left in the open.
“Who are you?” he asked. It was not meanly. It was simply a statement with a question mark thrown at the end of it to make it seem like a real question. It was a fair question to ask.