He stared at the wall with paintbrush readied in hand. White paint had been dripping onto the newspaper covering the floor beneath it. “Monster Jam” the headline read. A distracted guess to what the story may have been about. Man, had he fallen out of the loop since the old man died! Months of newspapers delivered and stacked unread. Lowering the brush to his side, the paint poured down covering the picture: cars stuck in traffic.
He laid the brush down on the paper and sat on the old man’s bed. Longing for a cigarette. Perfect time for one.
That spot on the wall.
Dull and darkened, it looked as if someone had scribbled in pencil and tried to wipe it clean with a paper towel. Grayish color embedded deep. He turned his head slightly. Same around the light switch. He would never forget the old man’s hands. Stained with grease and oil. Hard and cracked. Swollen, hardened fat.
Bending down, he grabbed the corners of the newspaper and gathered them together wrapping the paint covered brush. He picked up the bundle and walked to the garbage. And dropped it in.