--> mydearstranger/ Dark skin, dark jeans. Dirt permanently pressed under your fingernails, a filth that you stopped trying to file away years ago. He was dressed like you – a son, or a grandchild – dark skin, dark jeans, overalls unclipped and dragging. Hand in hand, dirty fingernails and all. You were both covered in smears of white paint – from the slope of your ear down to the tan-skinned and scuffed work boots. There was a brush tip, dried and peeling, peeking from the front pocket of the boy. I wanted to see the project you were working on. The fresh coat over old walls, or spongy white clouds in a blue sky. Maybe you were just spreading out a pure layer before you pull out the reds, and the greens, and the teal. Or maybe your boy just wanted to get his pants dirty. You opened the door for him, and then for me, and you smiled wide and checked the door frame twice for white fingerprints. I hope these days go by slowly, stranger. Sincerely, Me.
Posted on: Tue, 19 Nov 2013 23:57:30 +0000