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.