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.”