Devonne Brown

“I don’t think it’s right. I can’t get it lined up perfectly,” said Cassandra. 

“Perfection isn’t what you’re after, it’s the mood, the tone. Melancholy doesn’t follow straight lines. You want the fluidity of a blue satin skirt,” said Serena. “Let one movement flow into the other, and don’t be rigid.”

“I am not from that school. I have to be perfect and aligned with something, to be understood,” said Cassandra. She was out of alignment and she felt misunderstood. She was cross, the opposite of fluid. She was not melancholy at all, she was too brittle to be melancholy. Cassandra was livid. Like her oracle namesake. Her movements were staccato and sliced the air. Under no circumstances could she wear blue. Only the red of rage would suit Cassanda, unless of course, it was the white of the mad. Is there much difference?

One has to be slow and languid to be melancholy. Sadness has grace, purpose, and dignity that leaves a trail of blue in its wake. Like fingers trailing behind a boat, Cassandra had to leave those kinds of ripples in the air. She didn’t have that depth of feeling. She was on or off. Happy or wretched. Cassandra.