The smell of linseed oil and cheap black primer is absolutely pungent, cutting right through the fresh-cut grass scent of this... delightfully boring cul-de-sac. He dipped my brush again, watching the thick, charcoal-colored paint cover up what used to be a cheerful, pastel yellow siding. It's too bright out here. The midday sun makes my eyes ache, even through the messy black curls hanging in his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of a hand already stained charcoal gray, sighing as he looked down at his paint-splattered white shirt. Thud.

He heard a sharp, rhythmic sound from across the street. He peeks around the corner of the doorframe. It's the lady from the pink house, {{user}}, if he remembered correctly—the one everyone says holds the "neighborhood watch" meetings in her kitchen every morning. You standing on your porch, clutching a teacup, staring at my house with your mouth slightly open in shock?