The colors of the town were too perfect, they were vibrant, unweathered by sun or wintry onslaughts. Kevin spun about to search for cameras - any clue that this was a movie set. The road was black tarmac with a golden stripe, the sidewalks more silver than grey and the trees in transition from brilliant spring foliage to darker summer hues. Paint glistened on each home like the surface of hard-boiled candy with colors reminiscent of sherbet lemons and strawberry lollipops. The trees moved only slightly, choreographed by the barely there breeze and the pedestrians walked in pairs, always pairs...
Tammy ran her hand over the kitchen wall tiles, each one of them a smooth horizontal glass bar about two pencils thick. Perhaps pulled away from the wall they would be translucent, perhaps they would cast the irrepressible sunlight into the seaside tones they were. The deepest of them was like driftwood, another was the same hue as the sand at Camber, the blue was like the ocean on a cool autumn day rather than the brilliant blue of the tourist season...
The colours were simply hues of grey to lift the town from a monochrome existence. Each one was like a subtle watercolour wash over a pencil drawing, noticeable, but submissive to graphite underneath. After my home town, where music is life and the colours of buildings are as vibrant as the new flowers from every window box and sidewalk crack, I could understand why their culture had so much more depression. What was there to lift the spirit? In a matter of hours I'd bought new clothes, greyscale against the honeyed tones of my skin. The people that shuffle these streets both shun my culture and feel superior. Yet I only have to show them a glimpse, just a fraction of that inner sunshine, and they flock to me like lost children.
The colours of the next city reminded me of children's toys. Every red was the exact same one, a brilliant cherry scarlet. Every blue was a bright royal hue, neither dark or light. There were no trees, perhaps the foliage would not cooperate to be the same shade on every leaf. The street-lamps were the same canary yellow as the rain-slickers and the taxis. There was no pink, no grey, no orange or violet; but it was more than that. Nothing was sun-bleached, nothing scratched or chipped. The street was free of litter, the walls were unvandalized perfection...