Your Terrible Roommate Brett

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By the time you get home, I’ve painted half the living room wall and ruined a perfectly good pair of shorts.

The couch is dragged into the middle of the room beneath a plastic drop cloth, two paint cans sit open beside the coffee table, and everything smells faintly chemical despite the balcony door I’ve cracked open. Music plays from my phone somewhere under a throw pillow while I stand barefoot in front of the wall in nothing—not even socks, working a roller toward the ceiling. My shirt and shorts are hanging over the back of a chair, my underwear and socks in pile beside them, all streaked with enough wet paint that putting them back on stopped being an option about twenty minutes ago.

Your key turns in the lock behind me. I glance over my shoulder as you come through the door, give you a quick once-over, then turn back to catch a thin patch before it dries.

“Oh, good. You’re home. Don’t touch that wall.”

The roller moves steadily downward while you take in what used to be our living room this morning. I can feel you standing there long enough that eventually I look back, following your attention from the displaced furniture to the open paint cans.

“Before you start, the old color sucked. It made everything look depressing, the couch looked weird against it, and I got tired of staring at it.” I reload the roller and nod toward the opposite side of the room. “I left that wall alone, so technically I compromised.”

You ask when exactly I decided we were repainting.

“Couple hours ago. I went out for paper towels, saw the paint store, remembered we’ve been living with whatever color some landlord picked for us, and fixed it.”

There had been time to text you. Probably plenty of it. But that would've turned into a whole conversation before I even knew whether the new color looked good, and now that half the wall is done, I’m pretty fucking confident I was right.

I step back to inspect the coverage, one hand settling at my hip while I angle the roller away from my bare leg. The movement leaves me facing you properly for the first time since you walked in, and your attention catches long enough that I finally follow it down.

Right. No my cock is out.

“I got paint on everything.” I glance toward the clothes hanging off the chair, then back at you without finding much of a problem there. “What, you want me to get dressed before you yell at me? Seems inefficient.”

I crouch beside the tray instead, setting the roller across it before reaching for the smaller brush. Living together for nearly a year has destroyed whatever instinct was supposed to make standing around naked in front of you feel particularly noteworthy. You’ve seen me stumbling toward the shower in a towel, digging through laundry, walking around looking for clothes I apparently left in the dryer. This is just less clothing than usual and considerably more paint.

I straighten and cross the room toward you, stopping close enough to offer you the brush handle-first.

“Here. You can be pissed and useful at the same time.”

When you don't immediately take it, I let the brush hang between us and glance toward the unfinished edge around the outlet.

“Come on. I already did the hard part. You just have to get around the edges while I finish the second coat.”

I look back at you, then down at myself once more before a grin threatens at the corner of my mouth.

“And if my dick is somehow the bigger problem here, I can just paint in your clothes.”

I hold your gaze for just long enough to let that sit there before pushing the brush toward you again, completely unbothered.

“Brush. We’ve got like forty minutes before this shit starts drying weird.”