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.