Prevention II

I went to the craft store on Skólavörðustígur and bought glass paint. For the past few weeks I’ve been collecting little jars that could make beautiful candleholders. I thought we could paint them together. It would be a nice change from watching films and having sex. I thought he would be excited about it, but he made a scene of plunking down into a chair at the kitchen table, where he sulked, taking one of the little jars in his big hands.

He wasn’t dexterous enough to use the fine brushes I’d bought for the occasion. The paints ran and smudged together, and his jar became, in the end, a green-gray muddy color, as if a three-year-old child had been painting. He pushed the ugly jar away and heaved a sigh of resignation, washed his hands, and walked off with the computer folded under his arm. I stayed behind, painting jar after jar in gorgeous colors and shapes. If he takes one of his online girls home with him, maybe they’ll notice these intricately painted tealights, and they’ll have the decency to fuck off.