As we came to know each other, I introduced more lamps to our strange and silent symphony, and let the colors tell what we could not articulate. Though she cast no shadow, her ethereal form changed in the telling. In green light, I saw her vibrant youth, and imagined a sun-dappled orchard and a family farm. In yellow, she transformed to a young woman too curious and inspired to stay home. As the lights became pink, then magenta, then red, she was not the fresh-faced beauty I saw at first. Her hair was shorter, curled like a chorine, and her lips were lacquered in a tiny bow. Her eyebrows thinned and arched, her skirt shortened, her blackened lashes lowered into a come-hither gaze. In the blue light, she was bejeweled, though barely clothed, platinum bobbed, back arched in pinup fashion. Beautiful and indecent in the way much of the world appreciates, but not me. She was bare and vulnerable and I cloaked her quickly in deep purple light. Back once again in the single filament of the ghost light, she appeared the simple beauty I'd first encountered that wet Saturday. In the white incandescence, there was she.