There’s something poetic about lipstick stains. Hauntingly beautiful reds on the rim of a coffee cup, perfect fiery pouts on a tissue, forgotten stories of scarlet on a shirt collar. The messy haired girl in a black suit and mustard shoes ordered a Toby’s Estate latte with two sugars at John’s for a Monday morning caffeine fix. She was sitting in a corner at Piato’s, reading the Book Thief last Sunday afternoon, and paused only to take pictures of her food. She insisted on sitting outdoors at Treehouse on a windy evening last week, and was quietly whispering something to the gentleman in a grey suit. She held a glass of wine in one hand, the wind was in her hair and a laugh played on her cheeks and in her eyes. She was strolling down Fort Kochi last night, in the arms of a man and wondering if finally she was really in love. These mundane moments, it seems, are her works of art and ruby stains are her signature.

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