She wrote down a list of all the rainbows she had ever seen, and kept it in her pocket, crumpled into a soft, worn, ball. There was the rainbow over the meadow, bleeding out of the cool, indigo sky. The sun hit the sides of the horses who were grazing in the meadow there, and gleamed off of their wet, brown sides, making them appear golden. There were the rainbows, much less brilliant and sure of themselves, that were wisped away as quickly as they came, visible over the trees and the powerlines that ran along the road where she grew up. There was the rainbow that she made in the waterhose in her mother's garden, when she made a fine mist with her thumb and shivered at the droplets falling on her shoulders. Rainbows are exquisite perfection, she believed, and taste delicious.