Watching Paint Dry

What else was there to do when she lost power? Couldn’t go online, couldn’t watch TV, couldn’t call anyone.

She had a few cans of paint in the garage. Once upon a time, she’d planned to paint a mural on the bedroom wall. She had a sketch prepared. It was time to go ahead with it.

She opened the curtains to let in some daylight, and opened the windows to let in some cool air. She stripped down to her underwear, not caring if people saw her, more caring about paint on her clothes. She didn’t have the build of a model, but her body wasn’t terrible. She was average enough that prying neighbors wouldn’t care about her.

The wall right now was a deep orange, a beautiful color that fit in with the rest of the room. It looked nice, but she needed to have a clean surface for her mural.

She set up everything she needed. Cleared the furniture away from the wall, and covered the carpet with a drop cloth. Taped off the moulding. Poured the paint into one of those trays—she mused that since she had all this stuff, she really should have painted long ago. She grabbed a roller and slid it into the paint, feeling the viscous resistance. She shook it off over the tray, littering a few stray drops on the cloth over the carpet. This primer paint was the kind that went on pink and dried white. Maybe it was actually ceiling paint? Didn’t matter, she’d be painting over it soon.

The first thing she did was paint one long stripe across the wall, just feeling how smoothly the roller went. The garish light pink covered her beautiful deep orange. At least it would dry a better color, before she covered it with the bright colors in her mind.

She painted her name on the wall. Just for fun. She painted a smiley face. The wide stroke of the roller made her writing and doodle look like they were done with a calligraphy pen, but also looked ridiculous. She had to laugh. She was only painting because it was something to do, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun with it.

Her silly doodles gave way to long, wide rolls. She painted up and down the wall, covering it with that pink paint. She paid attention to the corners, trying to make sure that she got every spot covered. But she soon realized that pink over orange wasn’t too easy to see. She’d have to wait till it dried to see what parts she missed.

She went to her bathroom to wash some paint off her legs. She didn’t even notice when it had fallen there, but she had to get it off nonetheless.

Once clean, she sat on her bed to watch the wall. She couldn’t help but laugh at herself again—she was so bored she was literally watching paint dry!

It was kind of interesting, really. She sat there, staring at the wall, and let her mind wander. She imagined she could see shapes in the small bumps texturing the plaster. The shapes started as swirls, and then turned into abstract but distinct shapes. Pretty soon, she could imagine things. There was a bunny. There was a plane. There was a face. The face had glasses and a mustache. Looked like one of those stereotypical representations of a sexual predator.

Oh, now she had to cover that up. She wasn’t sure she could sleep in this bed again, imagining a rapist watching her. Her mind turned to that dark place minds go every so often. What if a man like that did get in her room? Force her to lie on her bed, strip off her clothes?

She tried to keep her thoughts away from that. She had never been assaulted or anything like that. She had a perfectly normal life. But still, the threat crossed every girl’s mind once in a while, didn’t it? What would she do? She hated herself for thinking it, but she had to continue. She had to think out this scenario, unlikely as it was, until it had a happy ending. Otherwise it would nag at the back of her head, causing unnecessary worry.

She would knee the man in the balls, run into the bathroom, grab whatever she could to spray in his eyes. Between various perfumes, hairsprays, and breath sprays, there had to be something that would cause some damage. She’d shut the bathroom door on him and blockade it while she called 911. Yeah, she had a plan. She was going to be okay in the unlikely event that ever happened.

She snapped out of her little daydream—could that even be called a daydream if it wasn’t something happy?—to notice that the paint had gotten a little whiter. And now it was apparent that there were orange spots shining through, as contrasting against the primer as syrup on a snowcone.

She picked up a brush. Not a roller this time, just a small brush with regular bristles. Dipped it in the paint, covered over those spots. Drips rolled down the wall, pink lines slicing through the pristine white.

Lines like razor cuts on a pale wrist. She shook her head, laughed in spite of the thought. She had a morbid mind today! She grabbed the roller to smooth those drips out.

After setting down the brush and the roller, she rooted through her drawers to find that sketch for her mural. She found a pencil as well. Added to the sketch, a beautiful flower over the imagined face. She could sleep with a flower staring at her. A lovely garden would surround her bed in her dreams. She would have rare and exotic flowers creeping up the posts at the foot. Perhaps a cute little deer would nuzzle her awake in the morning.

She knew that scenario was even more unlikely than the first. But the wall was white and dry now, and it was time to paint over that face.