Is fury red colored? She asked him as he picked up his brushes.
Maybe. Sometimes. Well always. He answered.
That’s much clearer, thanks. He continued to pile up his supplies in a milk crate that was also red.
It’s a lot of trial and error. He said, apropos of nothing. She picked up a rainbow slinky. The plastic juggling sounded like depressing train clatter. She missed the metal ones even though they made her hands smell something awful. The room went suddenly silent and she looked up at him. His eyes were already stitched to her.
What? She said. Walking slowly across the room, he put a palm flat on her thigh. For the longest rapidity of time, his face grew closer and closer to her face. His other hand suddenly grabbed the slinky.
Gimme that. She flinched and hated herself for doing it. She especially hated him because she would have let him kiss her if he had.
You’re a fucker. She said, sweet as pie.
I know, I know. But things will come around. His crate of paints and jars clinked as he went down the hall.