Mistaken for a vivid flamingo

I chewed my sleeve nervously, as I sat, legs twisted up on the gummy chair, my static gaze fixed on the view of clumps of skyscrapers out the window. My ears suddenly popped, and the office sounded almost like a swimming pool. I wondered if I could tie bubble-wrap from a discarded package around my arms to aid buoyancy.

It was then that I noticed a figure striding across the car park. I couldn't see that well, but I could tell by the way the person was moving that it was my boyfriend. Even only after a few days, I could just tell. I stirred from my stillness and drifted into the elevator, ready to meet him.

He was wearing an intrepid pink shirt, which I complimented, since the colour actually suited him well. He told me that he hoped that the brown colour didn't make him look too much like a tree. I pointed out that not many trees are pink, and that he was more likely to be mistaken for a vivid flamingo.

We popped into the supermarket for snacks, and then when we were back at the car, I asked him to pass me a recently purchased ice lolly, even if it would be a little melted. He asked what colour, and I told him orange, but he handed me green. I asked him again for an orange one, and he handed me a different green one, and looked at me quizzically. I sighed, reached over and grabbed an orange one from the box, while wondering if this slight hint at vexatious behaviour was an early sign that things just weren't going to work out.

He then revealed to me that he can't even tell what the colour of traffic-lights are, and has to depend on the position of the lights, because he is just so colour-blind. He then added, comfortingly, that it doesn't really matter because he can still tell what colour my eyes are.