I ask him what his favorite color is, and he says, softly but with great intensity, "Dark dark gray, fading into white," or maybe, "Dark dark gray, fading into black." Either way, it involves dark dark gray and fading.

We are on the damp, chilly, dark green grass in the far field of my parents' property. At 23, I am the older woman by a handful of years.

He thinks his answer to my question is deep or meaningful. I pretend it is. I may even murmur, "Wow."

I wonder if now, more than two decades later, he prefers blue.