Page 76 of Error Handling
“I wanted you to pour yourself into your work. Not become part of your work.”
“How does my back look? Is it salvageable?” My cheeks burn. He tried to kiss me, and I literally melted. If only we had been sitting on the couch. He’ll probably never try to kiss me again.
Chris studies my back for a moment. “I think it’s a total loss.”
I curse. “I really loved this T-shirt.”
“You did?”
“No.”
But I’m keeping it as a souvenir to commemorate my third real kiss that never happened.
“I’m going to have to start over,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to help, and then I got all...” His voice trails.
“It’s not your fault.” I rest my hand on his knee.His knee.His soul even leaks through his knee. How is that possible? I wish I could rewind the last three minutes and place splints on my knees. I want to try again. Not now. It’s too awkward. But sometime. Sometime when I’m sitting. Or when he’s holding me up.
“I think you might need a shower,” Chris says.
“Or a bath in mineral spirits.”
“How will you get the paint off your back?”
“I’ll take a bath in mineral spirits.”
“Do you need help?”
Help removing oil paint from my bare back? That’s more intimate than a kiss, is it not? “Um. I guess. Do you want to see how bad the damage is?”
I feel him gently lift my shirt. “It’s...not bad.”
“Why do you sound so unconvincing?”
“Well...”
“How good are you with paint thinner and cotton balls?”
“Better than most.”
I don’t know what else to do. I can’t call Luna over to help. Luna has better things to do. Maybe I could ask my neighbor. My female neighbor. Or I could saturate a towel in mineral spirits, nail it to the bathroom wall, and then rub against it like a cow scratching its back.
What a mess.
“If you promise not to peek at anything, I’ll call you into the bathroom when I’m ready. There’s a can of mineral spirits.” I point at the rusty can by the back door.
I walk carefully through the kitchen, using a floor joist as a balance beam, and go into my bedroom where I fumble through my sock drawer looking for my string bikini top. I’m not ready to show him that much, though, so I grab the blanket I just finished crocheting and press it to my chest.
In the bathroom, I fumble under the sink for a bag of cotton balls.
“Ready!” I holler. I gather up the blanket to hide my front half and wait for Chris to enter. Half a minute passes and I think he’s chickened out, but he finally steps into the bathroom holding a large yellow sponge.
“You’re going to sponge me down?” I ask. “Like a car?”
“Um. I would say no, but I guess that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I thought this would go faster than cotton balls.”
I nod and Chris goes to work on my back. The wet sponge is cold, and it smells far worse than any discount perfume. I hope I don’t have back zits. If I do this will probably burn them off.