"I couldn't wait for her to get there. I thought she was going to love what I did to the place," I told the detective.
"And?" Oh. He wanted me to elaborate.
"Well, and..." I started. "I used her favorite color."
"Which was?"
"Red."
"Keep going." He just egged me on. I knew he wasn't ready for the whole story, but, hey, he asked for it.
"I made some pretty, um, paint splatters on the walls. They were plain anyways. And I tried to dye the pillows red with the paint, but they ended up being brown after I dried them, so I just threw them away."
The detective sat back in his seat abruptly. I think maybe he was finally realizing what I did. I just kept going, though.
"I decorated the plates and glasses with the paint, you know, like a do it yourself chick would, just to be stylish."
The detective audibly swallowed, and I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down before he cleared his throat and asked me a question. "Who gave you the, um, paint?"
"Her family, of course," I responded. "They're nice people but were very selfish with their paint. Boy, can they put up a fight. Anyway, she was late for the date. She called and asked me if I knew where her sister was, and I did, but, you know, I couldn't just tell her that her sister was in my basement slowly sliding little droplets of paint into a bucket so I could dye her roses. I couldn't."
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Paint and Sausages
Paris Jackson