Paint

The headline in the news immediately drew me in. Only one blurry picture has emerged from the murder scene. A person dressed all in dark colors, but with beat up white Chuck Taylor’s. Me being usually paranoid, I do a mental check: I usually wear all dark colors, but when I look at the time stamp, I was at home. My daughter, Thea, wanted the shed painted. She was at school, and my wife was visiting her relatives. I couldn’t go; I had to work and Thea couldn’t miss any school. So I painted the shed with paint I found in the basement.

I must have been painting the shed. Although I have no memory of this at all. I brush it off; I’d been off my memory game for weeks before yesterday.

The dryer beeps; the cycle is finished. As I’m folding my clothes, I notice a dark spot on my black jeans. It’s just a shadow, but you can tell that there was something there. It must have been paint. 

I finish folding the laundry. It’s time to walk to the bus stop to get Thea. I slip on my shoes. A few spots of maroon are on my shoe. And on the bottom, I realize, as I flip the sneaker over. The same color is under one of my fingernail. It’s a pretty color for a shed. I’m sort of a messy painter; this I remember from high school. 

I walk with Thea back from the bus stop. 

I notice the shed. I look at my white Chuck T’s. And my fingernails. I remember my stained jeans. 

“I like the color of the shed, Mommy.” Thea says. 

“That’s a very pretty blue.”