fidelity

the room was blue. even thought the paint can had read rootbeer, laying in that bed, the room looked blue. maybe it was the august glare reflecting off the blue quilt. maybe it was a fraction of the prism in that morning sky.

no matter. it was blue. and she wanted him dead. not anytime soon, but in time for there to be more than this blue room, and these brown walls, and that damn squirrel on the fence.