Yellow

Yellow, Ralph and I are yellow; not the strip-light yellow of past mistakes, but early morning yellow, crisp and true. My son and I are green, spring leaf green; so I knew, even before he started talking that we would never stop. My daughter and I are blue, cornflower blue, I bite my tongue and wonder if we will ever become friends. My sister and I are indigo; the less said about that the better.

I think I am a psychic synesthete, not that labels matter. A synesthete is a person who experiences an involuntary joining of real information such as words or music with another sense such as colour or taste, and a psychic sees things that no-one else can, or that are not really there, which amounts to the same thing. I don't see words in colours; except Wednesday, which is khaki, and music has no flavour, but I do see a haze, in an infinite multitude of shades, float, between me and every person I meet. You wouldn't believe how many colours there are in the world; cerise, aquamarine, cyan, teal¦ and every relationship I have ever had has its own.

It wasn't until I was five and told my best friend Zoe that I realised I was different; she and I were multivitamin orange, the shade of giggles and lemonade. I didn't mean to tell her and I didn't mean not to tell her; it just hadn't come up until I said that I didn't think I was going to like our new teacher, Miss Rod, because of the red. I watched our orange turn to the brown of indifference. The other children whispered and pointed; the air clashing in dark blue and shocking pink and I decided there and then, in the middle of the ghastly rainbow that I would keep it to myself, and I did, even from Ralph.

As a marriage guidance counsellor I make a living out of my 'gift' or 'curse' depending on your viewpoint; but it is not as straightforward as you would think, because I can't see the shade between the couple, only the colour they each make with me. It helps, a little, a sixth sense if you wish.

There was this couple, about two years ago, who, as soon as they walked through my door, I could see it was over, undone. He and I were ok, baby pink, which is understandable; it means fear, distrust or distaste. But she, she and I were black, colour sucking black, it's rare. Black is¦ is¦ this may sound strong, but its soulless, an anti-colour. She must have been damaged badly in the past and I can barely guess at the trauma she endured to emanate it, the colour of nothing. I tried to help; I helped him to let go, I found a psychoanalyst for her, but I don't think she went. I sometimes wonder where she is, and terrible as it sounds I hope she didn't have a child. I think she is dead, or wishes to be.
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Our yellow changed to hospital corridor, blue lip sallow. And I could see pink bleeding into the edges. I asked Ralph what I had done. He said nothing, I had done nothing; but I must have done something. I tried to kiss him, he said he was tired. I cried.

The pink is becoming; red is hate. We sleep on separate sides of it.

Miss Rod was sacked, for hitting a boy and calling him stupid; not that it matters, it doesn't take a Psychic or Synesthete to know something is wrong, a back issue of Cosmopolitan will do.

Ten ways to spot whether your man is a cheat. Ralph scored 9. He never bought me flowers.

I asked him, why do you hate me? He said, because he hates himself. I told him about my colours. He turned away, saying nothing, but I could see it in his eyes. He left me. I made it easy. I'm mad; I see things that aren't real. Unfit to keep¦

He came to collect the rest of his things today¦ our children.

Not red; grey.

Grey has always been just; grey is neutral, a beginning; now an end. Ralph said I need to move on. To let go.

But I am cursed, my eyes blinded by the sun.