Housecall
She invites me home to paint the walls.
They are as soft and pink as
her lips
I discover as I
gingerly finger open the door and gasp
“What a lovely place you got here, girl.”
She giggles. She knows.
Her eyes glint.
I begin to slowly explore
the rooms
she absorbs my every move
and bites a smile
God, there are so many rooms.
“Do you like this song?”
I do.
I’ve heard it before and my body remembers the rhythm.
So does she.
How many people does it take to tango?
Two.
Sometimes only one.
Only us.
But I got a job to do.
I swirl her around faster and faster
She tells me to slow down,
her slender legs cannot
keep up
And she
collapses to the floor
I observe at her home very carefully
The furniture all
curved and fragrant
The carpet
shampooed and sweet
The design is authored and
the architect is she
All of this is mine.
I say and my heart violently agrees,
I stomp through the rooms.
I barge into wardrobes and knock down curtains.
My fingers clench greedily around a matching set
Of pillows
She’s crying, wining,
begging me to stop
So I do.
But then she asks,
“Why did you stop?”
I have become a bandit,
I take everything she has and
And somehow leave her with so much more
“Oh… oh…”
She lays on the floor
in an empty home
I’ve cleaned it out entirely and
reassure her that
she’s gonna be okay
But right before I head back to my van,
To retrieve the brush
Buckets of white paint.
Splash around her soft pink walls.
Fuuuuck…
I whisper as
I massage the bridge of my nose
That could be a problem tomorrow
But for today?
Job’s done.
We lay together, for a bit
in the mess
Then she gets up.
“Thank you for that.”
I nod.
She’ll call me again
Whenever she needs a fresh coat
Of paint
And I will come.
And I will go.
Posted Jun 15, 2026, 4:40 PM UTC