“You should paint it.”
“The box. Paint the box.”
Robert Langstrum was unpleasantly bored. He woke up to the most beautiful sunny day, with white puffy clouds peppering the bright blue sky. The trees shifted pleasantly from side to side, dancing to the soft breeze. The grass was the very definition of green, gracefully crunching under bare feet with small drops of morning dew. Birds chirped merrily, but not too loudly as to be offensive to the ears; just pleasantly enough to add to the harmony of untouched nature.
I was always oblivious to the things you never were; it was a recurring problem between us. I never noticed how you brushed your hair this morning, slaving over those rich dense curls to make them seem more fluffy and neat. It never really occurred to me that there is that much of a difference between using this blue eyeliner you love and the black one you keep for special occasions. I had to wait until you told me, and even then I just pretended to understand because I saw how much it meant to you.
Mr Heart’s death was no surprise. His neighbors, his friends, his coworkers, they all knew this day would come: either he’d end up dead, or she would. The fact the temporary win was hers would prove to be more than mildly ironic. She, without him, could not function. She would crumble, decay and eventually vanish without a trace.
Such a waste.