At a
few minutes
before four,
Peeta turns
to me
again.
"Your favorite
color...
it's green?"
"That's right."
Then I
think of
something
to
add.
"And yours
is orange."
"Orange?"
He seems
unconvinced.
"Not bright
orange.
But soft.
Like the
sunset,"
I
say.
"Atleast,
that's what
you told
me once."
"Oh."
He closes
his eyes
briefly,
maybe trying
to conjure
up that
sunset,
Then nods
his
head.
"Thank
you."
But more
words tumble
out.
"You're a
painter.
You're a
baker.
You
like
to sleep
with the
windows open.
You
never
take sugar
in your
tea.
And
you
always double-knot
your shoelaces."
Then I
dive into
my tent
before I
do somthing
stupid like
cry.