Pastel Purple

It’s 6:15pm. Peter, Anna, Sophy and I are studying in the common room of our suite. “We need to get serious,” Peter whispered, but there was no subject in the declaration, so I was left confused and uncommitted, “about getting serious,” he clarified. “I’m not sure I can get serious about a guy who doesn’t separate whites and darks in the laundry,” I say, gently. “No,” he said, shaking his head in brief vibration, “we need to get serious about DINNER.” “Oh!” I said, maybe a little too relieved. “Ha!” He chortled, “YOU overthink everything!” He said, nodding his head up and down to prove it was true. “And speaking of laundry,” he continued, seeing me start to open my mouth, “the other night YOU asked me if your pastel purple panties should go with the whites or darks - so I must be an EXPERT!” I laughed at the idea of his laundry expertise, sailing in from out of the purple like that, it was haywire. “Well,” I said, becoming introspective, “I didn’t know you’d hold onto that question like a grudge,” I said, in quiet, wounded accusation, “from now ON, maybe you should stay as far away from my panties as possible.” “What are you two grousing about NOW?” Anna asked, looking up from her computer. “You guys are like an old married couple.” “True THAT.” Sophie said, like a judge right before knocking her gavel to finalize a ruling. “We weren’t arguing!” I said, looking around confusedly. I looked at Peter, who was smiling broadly, “Were we?” “Nope,” he said, wrapping his arm around me in a bearhug, “we were flirting.”