Her
mother disliked purple (cloying, base, a whore's color) and slumping,
slovenly girls with thick ankles who showed no interest in ballet. Secretly,
the daughter adored purple, the deep velvety kind, like dark
chocolate on the tongue, like a winter's night in full moon.
Years
later and no longer a dancer, the daughter gave her mother a
painting.
“What
is this garbage?”
“Mother,”
the daughter said, “it's release.”
