Just after the kettle clicked, the chameleon on the windowsill laid out tiny palettes along the sunbeam, as if color itself had been invited to breakfast. Each shade said good morning to the curtain first, then waited for the geranium to nod before settling into a single morning hue.
We asked at the kiosk by the gate. "I heard the pink only sits down after the flower agrees," said a neighbor buying envelopes. A line in the porch book, written very small, added: one color at a time, please; the next shade is still stretching.
A day later the geranium had turned a little toward the glass, and the chameleon wore a quieter green, as if the room had already agreed on the hour.