"There's coffee in the fridge."
What a statement, I remembered thinking at the time. At once an offer of hospitality and a glimpse into someone's private dwellings, their day-to-day oddities that had become background noise in their lives. Was it cold brew? Brewed earlier and chilled? Canned?
I opened a can of paint and stirred. Fisherman Blue for the downstairs, Gossamer Veil for the bathroom. The Benadryl should be kicking in soon so I wouldn't have to kick the mongrel of a cat slinking by my ankles.
Thank fuck for Covid, I thought. Two masks bought me a 15-minute padding on the little cunt. That's enough to get the tape up, at least, then go outside for a breather.
She could've been paying me by the hour and wouldn't have noticed how long I spent at the house. The Good Suburb rich, three cars, house had multiple zip codes, kids barely recognized each other passing by in the hall. But they all got along on Christmas. All the hallmarks of a Hallmark dream.
Her sister came over during the weekdays, seemingly on something new every time. This time it was downers. She slugged from counter to couch gripping a coffee cup for dear life before melting away in front of a TV. I don't have to tell you what news channel was on.
They had some new deck crew coming the week after we'd be wrapping up, I saw on their family calendar. The tops of the columns held names written with smiles, with nothing but cold penmanship written beneath. They'd added a column for the dog, too. But I didn't need to tell you that.
Dogs were first-class citizens around here. Below the nobility of course, but citizenry nonetheless. She poured it water from the Brita whenever it'd taken more than three slurps from its silver bowl. Same Brita that she poured mine, actually.
I tried not to drink on the job. Summers made it hard. Sitting in someone's house for so long, mired in bullshit. Even with the AC up you were still sitting there huffing paint all day. A guy gets thirsty, you know?