read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

April 6, 2010
He climbed slowly toward the eve of the bulding where his paint cans and brushes waited for him. His friend mouthed vulgarities over the damsel-in-distress they helped on their way home. They recalled the woman's voluptuous legs, and could almost feel the silky strands of her auburn hair again--until the southwest corner of their ladder gave way, arcing white paint all over them. That night, there was the whir of a garbage disposal, draining orange peels, carrots and telephone numbers. She didn't think of them at all as she dipped her brush into an austere, acrylic hue.