Helping with the family business

She shows up to help, paint roller in hand, still in the little white shorts she slept in. The shop smells like fresh primer and yesterday’s bread. Dust on her knees, streak of pale yellow across one thigh. She dips and rolls, bends low to reach the baseboards, shirt riding up, no bra, nipples tight from the cold wall. Sweat beads between her breasts. Every time she stretches, the fabric pulls tight across her ass, and she doesn’t bother fixing it. The paint dries fast on her skin. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist and leaves a faint streak there too. Hours pass like this. Quiet, steady, real. When the last wall is done she steps back, breathing hard, paint-splattered and flushed, and for a second she just stands there, legs apart, letting the air hit her bare stomach.