I decided to paint a wall in the house today. I chose the one in the master bedroom that our headboard leans against. I moved the bed to the center of the room. Being sure to scrap the wood floor, it almost looked better there. I took a Tupperware from the kitchen that was for a casserole, or maybe it was for s sheet cake, or perhaps it was not specifically made for a type of food but to fit in a rectangular set of other alike Tupperware. Regardless, we probably would not want to use this container for food after I was done with it. Placing the Tupperware on the floor, I proceeded to pry open the lid of the paint can. The Sherman Williams red balloon hovered while I worked the lid open. Pop. The lid slid off, revealing the opaque paint. It looked like a freshly strained puree, delectable but probably hazardous upon consumption. I took a wooden spatula from the kitchen that would also have to be retired from stirring vegetables. Slowly, I turned the spatula through the soup, carefully swishing it around and avoiding the side of the can. When I was content with my mixing I set aside the spatula on a magazine. It was a Time magazine from last month, there was a pink sticky note poking out of the side. I assume this was an article you wanted to re-read or share with your brother, no matter, it would probably be soaked with paint in a few minutes. Carefully I tipped the paint into the plastic vessel. A new home for the paint to temporarily rest. Realizing I needed a paintbrush, the procedure was put on hold. I dashed out of the room, down the steps and into the garage. Rummaging around, I kicked your red toolbox out of the way, I slid a hammer and nails of the workbench so I could climb up and reach the built-in cupboard. It seemed odd that I could not reach the shelf when we built this house from the ground up and I have not shrunk since we finished two years ago. An odd design to not reach something in your own home but I paid this no attention at the present moment. My fingers scanned the cupboard for a brush and grasped one in the back. The brush did not seem like it should be used for painting but I could not think what it’s legitimate purpose was. I took the brush, jumped off the bench and exited the garage. I ran up the stairs, back into the bedroom. At last, the time had come. I removed my shoes and set them under the bed. Taking care, I rolled up my sleeves and folded them underneath themselves twice. My brush hit the paint and then the wall. Slowly, I moved it up and down, careful not to let any paint splatter or drip. It seemed that hours elapsed as I painted the wall. The sun dipped lower in the sky and the shadow of my shoes shrunk. I paced back and forth, checking over my work and then at last, felt satisfied. Exiting the room I took the Tupperware, brush, spatula and paint can with me. I set the items down in the kitchen with satisfaction. The paint-dipped cookware seemed less out of place than expected, who knows, maybe paint is edible after all. It certainly looked appetizing on the counter. I sat on the old, white couch; the couch that had once looked like bright Styrofoam had seen better days. There was dirt on the legs, come to think of it; the couch might need my handiwork soon. The sun sank lower, into the sea of the horizon, dropping slowly to the bottom of the reef. I must have dozed off because suddenly someone was shaking me. Opening my eye I stared into a Granny Smith apple, wait wrong, those were my husband’s eyes. I blinked again and they were still there.
“What have you done to the bedroom”
“I said, what have you done to the bedroom? The bed is in the middle of the room and the wall is a different color.”
“What color is it?”