A journal of narrative writing.

So far, I had only gone home with her once, but there I was, watching her spackle the walls of a public bathroom. Outside, it was a beautiful day. I probably had a to-do list. She was a forced altruist, forty hours of community service for a DUI, and although I was forced into nothing, I didn't want to leave the space she'd cleared for me between the uprooted toilet and the spackle tray. It might have been the paint fumes, or her lip ring, but the spackle seemed to sparkle, her utility knife spectacular, the bathroom walls white to transparency, the loose tiles cool on my bare feet, and everywhere the total disrepair, the mess, the newness.