China White

Paint is permanently in the wrinkles of the gray man's hands. He tells me about the house he owns, and has painted China White. I wonder what brand of paint he used, and what shine it was. Eggshell, or our most popular category- Regal. I press 'special client' button and type my three number code into the cash register.

He tells me about how his wife liked dark, bright colors. But they made the three bedroom house look small and cramped. Like a child playing with an adult in a refrigerator box. The little homemade doors flapping open as the adult struggles to bend inside.

He smells of paint thinner. I type in and scan the washed out color of paint. The off white color looks sad and dreary but slightly hopeful. I suppose that comes from the extra amount of red he requested be added. It gives it a slight blush. Like a student questioning a teacher.

The man tells me I look like my father as I reach for the tired, old bills in his hand. I smile and tell him that it is what every 18 year old girl wants to hear. He laughs, and tells me that my father would make an attractive woman. I smile and hold out his change which he grabs with his hands. I wonder how many different paints are on those hands. The washed out colors all tell the same tale of old peoples houses and garage doors. There are no surprises, but for the little bit of childish teal that jumps out at me. The color is common in babies rooms, and I wonder if this man has recently become a grandfather.

Someday, I hope my father comes into this store. Laden with a dreary colored paint, yet also barring marks of the slave labor I will force upon him. When I ask for teal walls in my child's room, and he paints it for me. I doubt, however, the girl ringing up the paint will be as creepy as I am though. Looking at the paint on a painters hands, is like looking at the rings of a tree. They are found all around the heart, and can be counted. Yet they are also private, and should only be noted if necessary.