The Housewife and the Painter
“Honey, I’m tired of painting now.”Rich smiled to himself, shaking his head. He knew from the tone of his wife’s voice what she was doing. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Jennifer was standing across the room in her blue painter’s coveralls, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, strands falling over her paint splattered face, one hip dropped with a hand resting on the other. In the other hand a paint roller hanging loosely from her fingers, a pout making her already full lips look...