**Chapter 1: Crayons, Mothers, and Coffee**
"Mark...MARK! Were you listening?!"
His eyes shifted slightly, and he tensed his left shoulder, startled by her sudden outburst. Slowly and begrudgingly, he dragged his gaze from the boring, desolate cityscape just beneath the large window over to her. Her nostrils flared, and her fingers tapped against the plastic coffee cup. He drew a shallow breath and answered, "Amanda, your nails are perfect as they are. Why does it really matter if they are 2.25 or 2.50 centimeters from the tip of your fingers? Besides, the difference in color between your hair and nails is non-existent."
Amanda flicked her fingers in a grand gesture, pouted her lips, her eyes moistened, and stared at Mark for a few seconds, waiting for him to take enough interest in her complaints. When Mark held steady with his gaze, she let out an exasperated sigh.
"First and foremost, I ASKED for a rounded shape, and they gave me coffin shape. COFFIN SHAPED! We are going for our one-year anniversary dinner, not a funeral. Also, how can you not tell the difference in color? Look at my hair; it's a vibrant bright maroon, which means ruby with purple undertones. Now look at my nails - this has no purple undertones, not even magenta! I can't believe they did this to me."
"If you hate it, why did you pay for it?"
"Well...we were meeting up, so..."
Mark quickly darted his eyes back out to the lackluster city, trying to find and count all the tiny red cars that might pass on the distant highway. He wanted to see just how many red cars he could spot since Amanda was making a big deal over the "incorrect" red nail polish on her hands. Truth be told, he wasn't sure why she was so into red to begin with.
Even today, she wore a red wrapped dress with ruby earrings, a necklace, and a ring. Her shoes, modest two-inch Mary Janes, were also red. He felt like he was looking at a giant, walking, breathing, talking Crayola crayon. Even her hair color - bright maroon, as she called it - was so overbearing and looked terrible on her. He missed the blonde hair she had when he first met her ten years ago.
Only a few moments passed, and after counting one car among the plethora, she interjected, "Are we only together because of your mother?"
'Yes,' Mark thought. 'That's the only reason!' He wanted to scream it from the rooftops but knew he couldn't. His eyes shifted once more, and he looked back at her. "No, Amanda, I genuinely and truly love you. That's why we are dating, not because our mothers are friends."
Their mothers were childhood friends who ended up going to different high schools and colleges and lost touch. One day, while he was out shopping with his mother, they ran into Amanda and her mother. After catching up, they thought it would be nice for the then-14-year-olds to get acquainted and become friends.
Mark never liked the idea but didn't want to go against his mother either, so he just accepted the proposition. It was in high school that Amanda became "red crazy," as Mark had diagnosed it, starting with the boys she dated, her wardrobe changes, and finally her hair and cosmetics.
'What's so good about the color red?' He was curious but also knew some questions were better left unanswered, and he felt this was a prime example of that sentiment.
Amanda smiled, making sure to hide her freshly coffee-stained teeth from Mark in the process. It was then her phone began to buzz. She quickly grabbed it, gathered her purse - which was also a sickening red color - and her other possessions. "I'll see you later, baby," she cheerfully bolstered as she leaned in for a kiss. Mark was never too fond of PDA, that P being public or private, but he nonetheless allowed her to sacrifice his cheek to her lips. Satisfied by the faint afterimage of her kiss, she headed to the elevators, pressing the 11th floor on the electronic panel and entering the indicated elevator. She waved fiercely to him as the doors slowly closed.
'She forgot to throw out her cup...' he thought as he looked at his cappuccino mug. 'To drink or not to drink,' he pondered, debating with himself the reasons why he should and shouldn't drink the now-cold coffee. Enjoying his little internal debate, the pro-drink side won when his phone began to ring.
He reached for his phone and looked at the caller ID; suddenly, he was no longer interested in finishing his coffee. He drew a shallow breath and slid the answer button. "Good afternoon...mother..."
