Melissa O. Fuller

June 27, 2019 | 9:50 AM

There was a mark on the smallest pillow of the set. But if honesty is required, call a stain, a stain. I decided it was from a late night rendezvous with Oreo Ice Cream. The vanilla of it all would drip as you prioritized the chocolate crunch. Maybe a little toothpaste drizzle from early-morning, bed-making brushing.

It was a neat home and my mind began to wonder if there were stains in other places. I followed you to the patio and the first thing I noticed; a smear on top of the table. But since it’s best to tell the truth, call a stain, a stain. You told me it was left there by a member of your family, as if I’d asked. Did this mean you were the explaining type that got ahead of things in attempts to avoid the shame of truth?

We journeyed back indoors on the heels of talk about blood and building. Finding and timing. I put my morning dish in the sink and saw that there were spots in there, too. Though, if we’re laying everything out on the table, being up front and all, call a stain, a stain. I imagined there were stains everywhere: on toilets and towels, sofas and chairs. Most of all, undergarments. I assigned a number and space in my mind to each of the stains I shalt not forget.

At this point, I couldn’t help but wipe all the stains from all the dishes in the sink. I put them on the counter for air, and smiled.