by aeonian

Bree has never been afraid of doing what needs to be done.

She is painting the coffee table, the one Andrew broke when he was ten and then broke again, in the backyard after dinner

And then Lynette—she only comes after seven now, she is away all day long, but it is summer enough that the sun is still up, and Bree is covered in paint because she is not quite as good at anything anymore—Lynette drops to her knees in the grass as if in reverence, and when she looks up at Bree her skin is clean.

This is Bree's life now: knocked-over tables and Lynette every afternoon.

When Lynette leaves she is marked with white the size and shape of Bree's hands, so good, so good against her skin, and there is paint in her hair at the nape of her neck, and will Tom notice? Bree watches her go, proud and a little unsteady across the lawn, white like a secret on the insides of her thighs, and wonders what the neighbors will think.

Bree has never been afraid of doing what needs to be done, but Lynette has never been afraid of a mess.

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