I had just left home when I noticed that I was wearing a mauve coloured blouse. Now, that couldn't be true, I hate the colour mauve.
There were a lot of mauve coloured cars parked in the street. At the end of the street stood a man wearing a mauve shirt – he stared at me – he said nothing. I could not pass him, not that he stood in my way, I could not pass him. I told him to come with me, I took his hand, we walked back along the street, he did not speak.
I asked myself why I was doing that, I did not know him, I did not know who he was, I did not know why I was wearing mauve.
I had expected it, it was so obvious. The walls of my bedroom were mauve and so were the bedclothes – he said nothing.
My husband Sam had died two years before, I did not tell the man that, but Sam had always hated mauve too. Something very odd, very mauve, was happening to me. Was it happening to the man who did not speak – I didn't know – he said nothing.
At first we did what Sam and I always did, then what I liked and Sam not, then what Sam liked and I not, but there was an awful lot of mauve.
I was sitting upright in bed, the man was doing something I can't describe here, I put out my hand to get a handkerchief to blow my nose, and picked up his knickers.
I felt angry, does mauve make you angry, I tore the knickers apart.
POW! The walls were white again and so were the bedclothes.
“Ooooh!” said the man. “That was clever. Who would have known it, to break the magic spell, you had to break the knickers. Ooooh! You are clever.”
“I'm sorry about your knickers.”
“Oh, no!” he said. “What is a pair of knickers compared to being with you.”
Somehow these stupid words sounded romantic to me.
“I'm not a witch, you know.”
“Oh, no!” he said. “You are not a witch, me neither. It wasn't a very good witch, really. I mean, the mauve stuff was rather amateur. Don't you think?” He sat up.
“Just because the magic spell is broken, it does not mean that you have to go.”