It wasn’t actually blood, of course, but it may as well have been. The can of Rust-oleum Harvest Red had leaked while he sprayed the words on Curtis’

garage door.

“I hate you” the words were now scrawled, the letters marred by drips like some horror movie graphic.

“Well, ain’t that mature,” Jessie drawled, a can of Schlitz in one hand, a Marlboro in the other. “You guys ever gone quit fightin’?”

“I’m done, Jessie,” Curtis sighed. “I know it’s childish but what he did just ain’t *right*!”

Jessie crunched the empty beer can in her fist and tossed it, basketball style, toward the trash can, buzzing with flies feasting on barbecue leftovers. The can clinked on the rim and bounced onto the ground.

“Just let it go,” she said, and walked back to the cooler for another beer.