a night walk

New York at Night, Vivienne Gucwa
"You always get this way," he said.
"I do not," she pleaded. "It's a world of colors. Pastels".
"Black and white will always be more real", he said. A taxi stopped sharply at their feet along the crosswalk, horn blaring in the mist. Tom yelled at him standing his ground if he wanted. Clara shook her fist. The driver yielded seeing how his wife at home was pregnant, plus he'd had a profitable shift up to now. No need for manslaughter, two counts. They stepped up on the sidewalk.
"No. Farther from it", she continued. She stopped and turned to him. "I love our Noir dates, I adore Ava Gardner like you, but you've let the celluloid seep into your veins". She was fierce. He saw her cheeks flared pink in the whitening of a high post light. "Black and white is NOT more realistic", Clara said. "Even sweat can sometimes be a beautiful color".
"How about gangrene? Is that beautiful"?
"Deep darkening purple, no, of course not, but certainly too no chocolate syrup puddling from a gunshot wound will heal in minutes". They'd long since stopped holding hands. Walking along the uneven sidewalk her right heel caught on a broken paver stone, and she tumbled hard. She denied being hurt, merely a dust-off, his arm lassoed around her waist bringing her up. In the golden light of a gated and closed jewelery store he looked at her and blued tears streamed down both cheeks, a bright crimson patch marking her chin.