The painter arrives to my blue
bungalow to touch up the living
room ceiling with white stain-
blocking paint. The previous
owner had left six paint cans.
I had selected the two heaviest
cans to anchor the swivel
tray for the lounge chair
in my bedroom. I am unhandy

and thus uncertain which can
contains the white paint. I show
the painter the four paint cans
in the laundry room. "That's red,"
he says. "That's beige.
None of these are white." I go
to grab the remaining two
paint cans. I am unintelligent
and thus place the first can
on the swivel tray. I remain
unintelligent and thus lift

the second can. The swivel
tray topples, sending the fully-
loaded first can everywhere
and anywhere. It kablooeys
across the carpeted bedroom floor
and uncarpeted bedroom walls.
I look at the painter. The painter
looks at the carpet, then looks
at me. "That's blue."