Tastes so pink

I am eating strawberry icecream that looks and tastes so pink.
The kind of pink that happens when there are just a few clouds at sunset, so the bottoms all turn freshy rosy pinky, and the tops are bright orange at first, and then turn dark purple and then the whole sky is dark dark blue, with a few stars peeking through, winking like they're full of secrets. That's what this icecream tastes like. Right this moment, I'm thinking of doors. how symbolic they are. I could shut my door and have it mean thousands of different things. But usually, when I shut my door, I just think that I'm too embarassed to show my father that all I do is sit on my computer, or watch the BBC production of sense and sensibility or try on different outfits trying to piece together something that will make me look suitably ethereal, but also down to earth. Spending the weekend with my father, just us. It's gone well so far. We are sort of the same. We like to be alone, but when we are together, we don't have to struggle for things to talk about. Or we don't have to talk. We just understand that talking endlessly doesn't always result in saying anything.
Glasses shopping was not as easy as I thought it was going to be, but in the end, I found some lovelies. I'm 'sleeping on it' as my father puts it. But I know. They're wonderful. And they make me feel brand new. And safe. Tortoiseshell frames, with a little wing at the tip. They make me fly, those wings.