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DAVID DANIEL
Paint
(reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press)
White, he said, I'm going to paint everything
white. Good,
she said, It's about time, it's time to paint everything white. Yes,
he said. And he pulled out a large brush and painted the words everything and white on
the wall in a very attractive hand, words which happened to be the first
two of the novel he'd just begun writing of the same name. She was not
amused. I'm not amused, she said. Paint, this place is filthy.
He painted the words was kept in a separate room across the
wall and onto the window, then until the snow fell and it was taken
outside which is when they met . . . and on and on until the walls
were filled and the floor, the plants, the couch, the lights, the pages
of books, the words, the chapters, becoming indistinguishable. She said, The
place looks great, you're a good painter. Thanks, he said, and he
took off his clothes to begin the last chapter on his legs. It was a
love story, but also a mystery because it turns out the two lovers had
been dead all along. Dead people can't be characters, she said, It's
not right. And she took off her shirt and pants and said, Paint,
it can't end like this. Of course, it could end any way he wanted,
so he kissed her as he painted yes over and over until she disappeared. 
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