Her: Can you breathe the color?
Her: Yes. But the smell…
Me: Maybe, I have a bad cold.
Her: I know you do. Try smelling it with your eyes.
Me: I find nothing.
Her: You have to. Touch the shadow scattered all over the ground around you.
[I put my palms down onto the grass. My eyes closed upon me.]
Me: Ah! The smell of wet mud.
Her: Exactly! The smell of dusts drenched in rain... the smell of softness... of beginnings..... and virginity. The original smell of the color orange.
Me: Perhaps, you are correct. It feels like the fragrance of the day we had met in the grey lanes.
Her: In the land of the Prostitutes.
Me: Yes. But you never told me what you were doing over there.
Her: I was trying to live the life of a whore... To sleep with different men so that I might not have to remember any of them. Maybe, I was looking for the man whose blood was pure orange. Rather, I'd been looking for a suicidal man... hoping that he might permit me to taste his death.
Me: You wanted to die with him?
Her: No. I wanted to live his death. [silence] Did you ever make love to a person who is dying... Felt yourself touching a departing soul... In a body that's drowning into itself? I wanted that. To tempt freedom into the maze of no returns. The labyrinth.
Me: So, you wanted a slave?
Her: I only wanted myself back.
Me: No. You only wished to have a scattered life. To lose meanings. To cherish all leave-takings. To die after each of your deaths. Didn't you always wish to be in a carnival of fading lights?
Her: I always was in the carnival. I only wished to take you there.
[I saw some teardrops roll down her cheek]
Me: Why are you crying? Don't you know it's forbidden?
Her: Don't you?
Me: Why? Am I crying?
Her: Yes, you are.
Me: Are you sure? I never realized I was!
Her: Yes, I can see tears down your cheek. They are orange.