Fresh Start

“I’m still unsure about this. Even though it’s over.” She stands on a tall stool, with a paint roller in her hand, trying to reach the furthest part of the wall that remains unpainted.
“This was the best deal.” He stands beside the stool, holding a bucket full of paint in one hand and stirring and mixing colors with the other. “This house presents the best view. Isn’t that what you were looking for? The other two houses we scouted were too claustrophobic for me.”
“I was looking for having a roof over our heads.” The scorn in her voice is unmistakable.
“There’s no point in going back to it again. Let’s start fresh. Let’s start anew.” He chooses his words carefully.
“It’s easier for you to say that. ‘Let’s start fresh’. What about me? I’d again be lonely once you go to work. What’s so ‘fresh’ about that?” She rolls the brush in straight lines across the wall. Beautiful trails of vibrant green condense after the roller.
You don’t have anyone nagging at you anymore, he wants to say.
She steps down from the stool, clutching his shoulder for support, and surveys the work in progress. The two walls she has painted have different hues, though imperceptible from a cursory glance.
“It’s the wrong color. For once in your life, can’t you do a better job?”
She carries the bucket containing the freshly-mixed paint outside. She’s surely going to dump the paint.
He stands still, silent, a thousand arguments passing his mind. But he doesn’t want to stir a squabble. He wants to start anew and he’s optimistic that she’ll come along soon.