Blemished

Last night’s argument discoloured the walls, like twenty years of cigarette smoke.

“This is going to stain,” one of them said.

“Use the steel wool.”

“That’ll take off the paint.”

They stood in the middle of the room, staring, rags in hand.

“We could repaint. Something bright?”

“Maybe a poster?

They dropped it for now. Emptied the bucket in the sink, rang out the rags. Moved the furniture back into place. And then, standing there, saying nothing, they drifted to other parts of the house. Later that night, they met in the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

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