Everything about him was pale. His skin was pale, his lips were pale. Even his voice was pale. When he looked at me, it was with piercing, pale eyes. He breathed pale, hollow breaths. His footstep were pale, his smile was pale.
“Hello dear,” he would say in his pale, pale voice.

When he sat, he sat with a pale demeanor. When he slept, he slept in such a deep, pale silence. He walked with such distinctive pale nothingness. Everything he did was with a pale attitude, pale actions, pale motions. He was so pale. Everything was pale. His skin was pale, his lips were pale, his eyes were pale, his voice was pale. Even his emotions were pale.

He cried cold, pale tears. He breathed out exhausted pale relief. He grinned pale excited smiles. When tired, he flopped into his pale chair with exasperated pale annoyance. When happy, he grabbed my arms and twirled me around with pale joyous enthusiasm.

I hated pale. I always did. I hated being trapped in this pale place, surrounded by pale dust, breathing in pale air, walking on pale earth. Most of all, I hated his pale, pale self.
I always hated pale. So it came as a surprise that, when he placed a cold, pale hand on my shoulder and said “darling, you’re so pale.” I responded “I know,” in a pale voice, and smiled a pale, pale smile.