A Reason to Watch Paint Dry

Ann Carr challenged me to take a boring word or words to write an engaging story, I chose "watching paint dry." To note: the character Dymond's name is pronounced as "Diamond."

Here We Go!

Ginger breezes send clipped grass, moist cement, and wet paint aromas in Joyce's nostrils, who's perched on the stoop of her house. Muted coughs interrupt her silent gaze at the freshly painted mailbox 20 feet in front of her at the left of the driveway. The tickle in the back of her throat won't leave. Clearing it does not work. The coughs do not work. The acidic paint odor does not clear that tickle there. The clipped grass odor fails too because tickles! Joyce has to wait for the paint to dry on the mailbox. Why?

Cough. Cough. It's so irritating, this cough. After hours of work, the mailbox is finally complete, so the cough should disappear, but it's still there!

Cough, cough! Deep breath--grass, cement, and paint smell! Cough!

"This is getting ridiculous," she mutters, slowly rising from her stoop. Joyce slowly turns to enter the house in defeat; however, her eyes refuse to yield to the direction of her body and skull! Fear? Fear.

"This is asinine," she whispers, tiny cough--torturous because nothing comes out, just air!

Another fit of coughing causes her to slump to her post on the stoop to watch paint dry on the mailbox. Her instructions were to paint the thick wooden post white and watch it dry. That's it. The rain made that assignment ridiculous! The sun's obscured by clouds!

Joyce finished an hour ago, and the woman said that it should have worked by now. Cough! Dry cough! "Please, let this be over with," she prays--hopeful and defeated simultaneously.

Joyce excitedly told her husband about a quaint little cottage in Manchester, a small town in the burbs outside of Concord. Living in the city has its advantages, but Joyce and the hubby grew tired of the traffic and loudness. Hubby, Dymond, searched for weeks for a suitable getaway from their condo in the city when the stress grew too much--second home, but she'd found it!

"Dymond," Joyce yelled into her mobile, excitement exploding with each syllable! "You have got to see this cottage in Manchester! I almost overlooked the ad, but a notice showed up on my phone about it!"

"Hey-y-y-y, what's going on," Dymond responded laughingly! He knew from Joyce's behavior that whatever it was she found, negotiations for it were in play, and they'd have it by the end of the day.

"Babe," she regaled enamored. "It is perfect! It has a white picket fence and a well-kept lawn! Oh, It has shade trees and a small garden. The stoop! It has a stoop!"

Clearly, this was the place. There was no use trying to tell her about the cabin he wanted to discuss in Woodledge. No, she's too happy about this cottage. Life had been hard on them. They lived together for four years before they married three months ago.

Dymond discovered natural conception may not occur, due to a hernia operation mesh malfunction, a month into the marriage, a blow to Joyce who wants at least two kids--with Dymond! They argued on and off for weeks following the news.

Joyce wanted a place for them to get away from the normal. A place with little if any tech around and few reminders of the scare that pushed them into marriage in the first place. It was all too much to handle alone!

"Joyce, I will be there as fast as I can. Text me the location--never mind. I pinged you. I am on the way."

"Good, the seller is also on the way with the contract! I am so sorry, Hun. I am drawn to this place. I think it will be our refuge."

Presumptuous, but fine he cooed to himself. The right to offense no longer belonged to him. Dymond was lucky she wanted to be in a relationship with him at all after what he had done to her. In the corridors of his mind hung the shame of what he forced his wife to do--especially in light of the news of his possible problems with fertility.

"Wow, Joyce!" It was all he could muster in response.

Joyce expressively chirped about the cottage as Dymond resolved to love the place no matter what. The car was fully charged and ready to go before he left his office fifty flights up. His thumbprint opened the door to his car and in he went transferring his phone to the car communication system to continue listening to Joyce rave about their new cottage.

There is no fighting it. Dymond planned to spend the rest of his life paying Joyce back for what he'd done, including giving in to her every desire no matter how much he might resent it. Of course, she has no idea that he vowed such a covenant. She blamed him for nothing, though she could have. Even making such an unlivable deal meant he'd learned nothing!

See, she was pregnant. That was the scare that pushed them to jump the broom!

Dymond couldn't believe his eyes when he arrived! The cottage reminds him of the cabin he wanted in Woodledge! The grounds are neat and simple with a white picket fence. The driveway to the structure looks as though it is newly poured. The trees are perfect and the inkling of resentment at Joyce's choice left with each step he took toward the house.

The only problem with it was the old ratty mailbox. It was an eyesore ruining the entire view! "Definitely have to replace that," he promised aloud to himself as he opened the cottage door.

It was a done deal! The elderly gentleman who owned the house accompanied the realtor and did the transaction there on mobile with thumbprints to seal the deal. The funds changed accounts and the records list Joyce and Dymond Freemen as the new owners.

"This is a historical site," the former owner reminded them before leaving with his realtor. "Please, preserve as much as you can. But of course, it is your place now. So... Good day." The man smiled and gave a brief earnest look as if he wanted to tell them something, but didn't.

For the next two days, Joyce and Dymond order furnishings for the cottage, turning it into the great escape they want. It does not have any of the tech the condo has, the smart condo. They actually have to adjust the climate controls with their hands! There is a gas stove and fireplace. More importantly, there is no nursery.

Expletives swirl in Joyce's mind as she regards the bane of her existence--that stupid mailbox! Cough! Cough!

"It was a mistake buying the house," she thinks. "If ever I had known something like this could happen to us, I would never have wanted to get away from Concord, from the city, from my condo!"

A whiff of the wet pavement causes dry-heaving before the smell of the grass and paint result in her breakfast crawling partially up her esophagus and down again to her innards. Yet, her eyes rivet that mailbox--watching the paint dry on the post. Cough! Cough!

"I'm sorry," sobs out Joyce. Cough! Cough! "Can you hear me? Please!" Cough! Cough! "It should be over!"

"What do you think Dymond," beamed Joyce, having finished decorating the cottage. Long linen curtains adorn the windows throughout the abode, which consists of two bedrooms, a living room, one large lavatory, and an open kitchen and dining area. The place is large enough to entertain a small group of ten or so, but small enough to call cozy. The shade in the rear of the cottage makes the backyard a great place to grill and relax for Dymond--especially with the new grilling deck!

"Just like we wanted," Dymond answers. "I have to be honest, though. There is one issue with this place that I want to fix."

"What's that," Joyce asked with apprehensive eyes hidden behind a placid face.

"Have you seen that ratty mailbox?"

"Yeah," the apprehension left her eyes as she responded, relief hugged her words."I thought it added character to the cottage--a reminder that it has a history."

"History?" Dymond furrows his brow in resigned disgust. It's not like they used the mailbox for mail service, but he wants a better-looking one than the rusted breadbox that sits on that termite-infested post!

"You want it gone don't you," Joyce declares reading his mind. "Look, I have decorated the entire cottage, and you have not requested anything besides the grill deck. I suppose we can restore the mailbox."

"Restore," incredulity oozed as he chuckled--the two of them chuckled as they relaxed together on the custom loveseat. "How about replace? I already bought a new post to replace the riddled one in preparation."

Joyce gave him a knowing look. "I wondered what that thing was for when you brought it in yesterday." They stood, holding hands as they approached the bay window to peer at the old mailbox, chipped paint, and slanted.

Dymond's patience failed him when he saw what he can only describe as the last grotesque vestige of the cottage when the bread box door fell off!

Hugging his wife sweetly for being so understanding prior to, he exited the cottage to confront the mailbox. As he stood before it, he hesitated to act, almost as if something changed his mind.

Joyce joined him for the event. Something about the piece of junk caused him to pause.

"Are we doing this or what," Joyce chided? "I will start by raising the flag to surrender." As she attempts to raise the little metal You-Got-Mail flag, it snapped off with an intense popping sound, which startles them both!.

"Well," humors Dymond impressed. "I suppose you are stronger than you realize, babe."

"Yikes, I didn't mean to break it--the old thing. I suppose it is coming down anyway. So, finish the job, man!" Cough~ "I must have something in my throat. Get to it!"

With one hard kick, Dymond dismounts the mailbox from the post and proceeds to remove the post from the ground with little needed effort but must gusto!

Later that night, Dymond and Joyce united in love for the first time in their new abode and then drifted off into slumber in each other's arms.

Cough! Cough! The morning started out horribly for Joyce. Dymond had left for work already without waking her she supposed, and her stomach ached and her head throbbed, and every smell killed her softly. Those feelings reminded her of what she was trying to forget. She remembered being pregnant with Chelsey. That's what they named her. Cough! Cough!

Joyce discovered she was three months pregnant when she went to her check-up six months ago. Dymond immediately proposed to her and they married two month later. A month into the marriage Joyce became severely ill and in extreme pain so intense she was placed in a medically induced coma.

The placenta at some point after her last physician's visit ruptured and caused a slow leak that aggravated an infection that was killing her and Chelsey! It was the worst turn of fortune. Dymond wielded the dividing sword decision to save his wife's life or lose both Chelsey and Joyce!

He could risk letting the pregnancy continue, treat the infection, and reattaching the placenta--a very risky and new procedure with a high mortality rate, a gamble.

If Joyce were not in the comma, she would have wanted to save the pregnancy because it was too early for the baby's birth. However, Chelsey could survive in an incubator, though she was at risk, having been deprived of oxygen at being detached in the womb. Dymond chose to save Joyce first and put Chelsey in an incubator being four months premature.

Chelsey did not make it. She was gone within 24 hours following the procedure. Joyce held her for four hours in her hands before the medical staff could pry the tiny body away.

Cough! Cough! Tears formed in Joyce's eyes as she remembered. Despair gripped her as she thought about the finality of it all. Dymond had discovered later that it was a miracle that he had impregnated her because of his virtual infertility.

Thinking about it only caused Joyce pain. Over the past few months in recovery, she had managed to push the trauma away, but for some reason, (Cough!), she could not stop thinking about it.

The possibility that they may not get pregnant without medical aid troubles her. Sleep beckons her. She lies back in her bed and has an intense dream.

Clouds roll past as if the day's sped up in a time-lapse video as Joyce walks toward the cottage which now sits on a hill surrounded by trees. The sky in the distance glows pink and orange as the image of a woman moves about in the cottage. Joyce feels as if she floats toward the cottage to see what goes on inside and it opens up like a dollhouse so that she can see the woman toiling away meticulously maintaining the home.

A man enters the cottage with flowers and kisses the woman who suddenly becomes ill--falling into a bed that appears out of nothing. Surrounded by people, the woman reaches out towards a post with a mailbox that her husband planned to give her as a birthday gift. He had painted the metal box to put on the post gleaming bright with flowers of varying colors as decoration.

The woman coughs uncontrollably as a doctor dressed as if he came from the 1950s shakes his head towards the husband. The wife, coughing, points to the mailbox and then her husband. Joyce can hear her thoughts. The woman wanted her husband to plant the new mailbox before she died so that her home could be complete and she could rest.

After the mailbox's in the earth, the husband hastily painted the post white to match the color of the cottage. Content with the mailbox, the wife closes her eyes. The coughing ceases.

The scene changes to the wife resting beautifully in her coffin as the family mourns. Everyone turns to dust before Joyce's eyes save the deceased wife whose eyes open. She climbs out of the coffin and walks toward Joyce with vengeance in her dead gray eyes. Without moving her mouth, the woman speaks.

You have ruined my home. As you have destroyed my memorial, so shall all that you love be taken away, including your life. But if you restore my memorial, all that you lost will be restored to you.

"I did not destroy your memorial," pleads Joyce in terror not knowing if she's thinking or speaking.

The mailbox. Your husband uprooted it. You did not destroy it, physically, but you assented to its destruction which is the only reason you were not taken away. You will die of consumption as I did unless you restore my memorial.

Immediately Dymond appeared in Joyce's thoughts. "What of my Dymond." Joyce understood more than what the woman spoke as not only words came from the woman, but feelings and thoughts. Dymond is gone. She felt it. The only way she can get him back is to rebuild the monument, the mailbox.

You must complete it when the sun rises. You must attach the box to the post, put the post in the ground, paint the post white, and watch if dry just as my Love did for me. At the right hour, all will be restored. If you do it wrong, I will come for you!

The woman lurches toward her unleashing a ghoulish wail from her maw, snatching Joyce out of her sleep to a dark predawn morning.

Cough! Eyes red from staring and crying, Joyce mourns. Dymond's car is still in the driveway, but he's nowhere. A bright light flashes and Joyce falls unconscious.

"Joyce! Joyce!" Dymond attempts to wake his wife who he found passed out on the stoop. "Joyce, wake up baby. Are you okay?"

"What...?" No cough!

"Joyce, I am taking you to the hospital."

On the ride over, Joyce tells Dymond what happened to her. Not able to account for where he was yesterday, he said nothing. He knows that he missed a day. They reach hospital.

"You are a bit dehydrated Joyce," the doctor informs. "I want to give you some fluids and run some more tests, but you seem fine." Joyce knew that restoring that mailbox must have cured her coughing; the curse is lifted, and all is restored!

Dymond nods in her direction as she eyes him for support when the doctor exits the room for a moment. "Dymond, it worked. Please tell me you believe me. Please tell me you remember something."

"I have no memory of yesterday. I went to sleep and woke up with you gone from the bed. I found you on the stoop and seven messages on my phone. I missed a day."

"Oh," the doctor interrupts popping back into the room. "It might be too early to tell, but your estrogen levels are high. You appear to be pregnant." Out of the corner of her eye, Joyce sees the woman from the cottage smiling but looks to find no one there.

So this is your Challenge!

Choose the most boring object or subject you can think of and write an engaging, entertaining, fascinating story or poem about it. You can make your own choice or write about one of the following:

• watching paint dry
• a blank floorboard
• monotonous music
• airport runway
• lying ill in bed with bandages on your eyes and no music
• a wilted leaf in a pocket

Other Entries in the Challenge.