You paint houses for a living. Wash walls with colour. Bring life to something listless and dull.
So what happens when the child of the house stumbles up to you, and asks if she can paint too?
Your hands inside her pants in exchange for a few brushstrokes seems a steep bargain.
You're a painter and with your bare hands you've painted her over forever.
4 comments:
why did i always think you were a guy!
It's painful reading this.
Very Kafkaesque! Loved it..
"Why?" she asked, as she colored yet another lackluster wall bright.
And you said, "It is not the stroke of a few brushes that color a lifeless wall. It is not paint that fills the dull wall.
The colors come alive to fill a deep void, inside of me. Now inside of you"
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