For Better or for Worse

“At some point,” he called over his shoulder, “you begin to question your motivation.”

He couldn't see her behind him but knew that she was busy untying a knot that he had tied. It was always easier to tie one than untie. Like how climbing up a tree is easier than climbing down.

She struggled with the knot and had, in fact, begun to question her motivation. “What the hell did you to this thing?” she cried.

He had problems of his own, namely this stupid paint brush that wouldn't wash clean. He'd been working at it for a while but couldn't get the sticky brown substance out of the thing. In its current state it was worse than useless, which he hoped wasn't a metaphor for his own life.

“I might ask you the same about this paint brush.”

“You might,” she said as she tugged at a promising lead. She could follow the fabric's path, see where it began and ended, but couldn't figure out how it all fit together and made sense, which she hoped wasn't a metaphor for her own life.

“Okay, I'm asking.”

When had it all become so tangled and dirty? Where had things gone wrong? How had they arrived at this place? Why was the world filled with impossible knots and brushes?

“I painted with it,” she said, “what did you think?”

A silver sedan drove past and honked. They both looked up in time to see it pulling away, headed off to some other place. Neither of them knew where it was going, but both believed it had to be preferable to where they were now.

They could never leave. That was no metaphor, just the truth of their situation. For better or for worse.