"Everything in life is grey, you know." -Jeanette Walls
Grey: Grey is classic; it is the perfect neutral. It is the colour of wisdom, the Christian colour of Lent, it is authoritative and often elegant. The human eye can distinguish 500 shades of grey.
Grey is the colour of the elephant in the room.
Grey is the neutral, safe, controlled colour of the area they were in.
Grey is the colour of 'there isn't going to be any off the job'.
Since she left him in Paris, and since she walked backed into his life as Director of NCIS, grey is how they live their lives. Because black would mean hatred, and irreconcilable broken hearts, and white would mean love, and head-over-heels forgiveness. Neither of them wants any of what black or white has to offer; they run deeper.
And so, grey is their colour.
Their relationship, their interaction, is ashen and dusty granite—it is intangible and undefined and she likes that way; he likes it that way. It is infinitely easier that way. Easier not to talk about the yellow way she'd dropped a Dear John letter in a coat pocket for him, and easier not to talk about the secrets he'd kept from her that said maybe she never really had his heart.
Their unorthodox, clandestine romance is smoky and cinereal, the colour of heather; it's like cooling embers from the hottest fire. She had told him there would be no off the job, and yet it had been mere weeks before her late night visits to the basement had turned to his waking up early mornings to her slipping out of his grasp to sneak home and dress for work.
They did not assign labels to what they had, they did not talk about it—but they were comfortable. She trusts him, in the dove grey of their entanglement, and he protects her, and keeps it secret from her that he'd never stopped loving her, in the slate, lead-grey mist of the affair they engage in.
Grey is conservative, refined, dignified—it is long-lasting, inconspicuous, and authoritative.
Grey is a compromise, between the two extremes of black and white. Because to become white, he might have to forgive her—and he doesn't think he ever can. And to become black, she'd have to stop regretting what she did, and stop loving him—and she knows she never will.
Grey is their compromise. His way of never having to tell her how he feels under the pretense of still bearing a grudge, and her way of keeping him at arm's length and never having to be hurt under the pretense that there isn't really anything going on between them.
The only thing that is going on is everything.
They are the grey area.
"There's a grey ghost runnin' through the night, an echo of the sadness and the pain-grey ghost runnin' through the night..." -Grey Ghost; Henry Paul Band.
*This anthology of colours is finally finished. Happy New Year, dear readers!