His bedroom is the third floor attic, so he can safely leave his window open to air out the room after his housemates complained, not in person, but in notes taped to his door. He isn’t so worried about the complaints—he cares about the tape damaging the fresh coat of paint.

            It started with a summer job picking litter for the city. Good pay. Housemates clapping him on the back and asking him to put in a word. In his second summer, he was assigned to a push-lawnmower. Then, during the third, he was promoted to the riding mower.

            One night he found his girlfriend sleeping in the wrong bed. He, now a cuckold like his father before him, said nothing as she left, then drank until he passed out. The next morning, he fell asleep while cutting grass along a sidewalk and almost mowed down a middle-aged lady walking a pug. She never complained to the city, but it threw him and he started declining party invitations—stuck to painting in his room—only able to drag himself away to use the bathroom, grab food from the fridge, or go to work.

            The city offered full-time employment when he graduated and, though it had nothing to do with art history, it did involve painting—driving a machine up and down streets painting traffic lines. He thought of the roommates, all working two or three low-paying jobs to get by, so he took it.

            Now, after every bit of wall is painted, he starts on the ceiling. When the ceiling is done he starts on the floor. And then, before the paint fully dries, he starts over again. The room shrinks, so he has to get rid of furniture. He leaves a lamp at the bottom of the stairs, then a table, and finally his only chair. While he clears the dresser drawers he discovers a letter from his ex, which he crumples and throws out the window. He lugs the dresser downstairs, runs back up, and paints away the spot where it once sat. Even the plastic bag that holds his clothes takes up too much space, so he installs a hook to hang it outside his open window. One more coat and he’ll have to remove the mattress from the paint-smothered room.

            One night, his supervisor confronts him with the security video that shows him smuggling cans of yellow paint to his car. When he gets home, after being fired, he tugs open his attic door. Bathed in the yellow glow, he loosens the mattress from the sticky floor and drags it out.

            His fingers tremble as he pries open the last can of paint and breathes deep. He drops to his knees, flattens himself, and wiggles backwards into his room. As he sinks into the tacky layers, he dips a cupped hand into the can, then smears the paint along the bottom of the doorway. Two coats should seal it.