Hoopla

The college stadium roars around you, a sea of navy and white stretching in every direction, jerseys, caps, face paint all blending into one monochromatic wave of school spirit. You navigate the crowded bleachers, a hot toddy in hand, trying to find your seat before kickoff.

"Excuse me..." You turn too quickly, your delicious autumn forward drink dangerously close to spilling. A hand steadies yours, and you look up into warm brown eyes beneath a navy baseball cap.

"Close call," he grins, but his smile falters as his gaze catches something.

You follow his line of sight, suddenly aware of the choice of earrings you've made, the only splash of color in this navy ocean.

"In a stadium of fifty thousand people wearing the exact same color..." He shakes his head slowly, a smile playing at his lips, "you manage to be the only thing I can see."

The crowd erupts around you as home team takes the field, but he doesn't look away. His eyes trace the bright pink hoops that showcase your neck, an electric splash of color against your skin.

"What are they called?" he asks, leaning closer to be heard over the chaos.

"Hoopla," you say, touching one lightly. It catches the autumn sunlight, a defiant burst of color.

"They're perfect," he breathes. "Like a flare in the dark. Where...?"

"Webster Street," you smile, squeezing past him to your seat, leaving him standing in the aisle, still staring.