The can of paint is labeled 'touch-ups.' I bought it for the new apartment, but it's the same color as the old one.
I took the bus home from the hardware store. A kid, maybe eight or nine, sat next to me and asked if I was running away.
I said no, I was starting over. He nodded like he understood something the adults wouldn't say. He said it takes guts to leave a mess behind.
My lunch break ran long that day. I ate a sandwich on the floor of the empty living room, surrounded by boxes.
I'm twenty-eight, the oldest of four. I've spent my life cleaning up other people's messes. Now I'm cleaning up my own.
The paint is for the cracks in the wall. But maybe it's also for the ones you can't see.
I haven't told anyone at the bank yet. I just show up, count the cash, and go home to an apartment that smells like primer.
It took a kid on a bus to ask the question I'd been avoiding. No, I'm not running away. I'm finally walking toward something.