Surprisingly, none of the districts ever argued with each other over the necessity of a block’s color. Now, this does not mean that the Violet Villa has not said one or two passive aggressive comments about the Indigo Gathering behind their backs, but if only skimming the surface - which most everyone did in Arc-de-Ciel - everyone got along swimmingly. One fall afternoon, Mrs. and Mrs. Baluyot got married in matching white suits and complimentary pocket squares, Elisa’s dark pink and Maja’s a light green. Despite the gray, cloudy sky, the people of Arc-de-Ciel celebrated triumphantly. So raucously, in fact, that no one noticed a newcomer in the mix until an Orange Row inhabitant stood up for her speech, and met the gray sunglasses of a total stranger. No one had come to the town for quite a long time. Still, the guests continued on as usual, not wanting to raise an alarm at such a sweet gathering. The stranger picked up champagne flutes to check for smudges, and once they were to his satisfaction, put them back in a different place than before. He did the same with the chairs, even pulled pieces of grass from the ground, smelled them and tested the strength of each blade. What was most unusual about the stranger, perhaps, was the way he dressed. Head to toe in a warm gray, the outsider wore an ensemble fit for a private investigator, fedora included. Even still, he danced with brutal efficiency, memorized steps fell out of his limbs like water from a spout. Late into the evening, as people began going to their respective houses on their designated lanes, a few offered the stranger a
place to stay, as they were good folk, even to unusual people such as him. The newcomer obliged. Ultimately, the stranger stayed for 2 weeks. The town folks got used to the weirdo’s presence, and invited him to lunches and dinners, as he had an intriguing manner about the way he ate and spoke that delighted the town. One night, after the town had gone to bed, Old Man Willy made the three street trek to where the stranger was staying and tapped hard on his window. After a brief bout of sharp (on Old Man Willy’s part) and confused (on the stranger’s part) hand gestures between the two, the stranger let him in. “Is everything alright?” The stranger asked, as he folded both legs into a perfect pretzel on the lavender bed sheets. “Yes, yes of course everyt’ing’s fine,” Old Man Willy whispered. “I just needed t’ talk wit’ ye.” “Okay?” the stranger whispered back. Old Man Willy got settled in the huge armchair in the corner of the purpley gray room, took off his cap, and sighed heavily before speaking. “Have ye been enjoyin’ yer time in Arc-de-Ciel?” his rough voice heaved out. “Yes, of course I have,” the stranger replied, “No one could hate a town like this.” Old Man Willy nodded his head, though soon it went from an agreeing nod to just a head bob, back and forth, shaggy white beard flowing with him. “Right,” he seemed to be speaking to himself, “of course.” “Was that all you had to ask me?” the stranger asked. “Yep, that’s all. Sorry t’ bother ye son,” Old Man Willy made for the window once more, and the stranger reached for his wrist. “Are you sure you are alright?” The stranger could wrap his entire forefinger
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