Since I was a little girl numbers had been my best friends. 

They were consistent, reliable, understandable, safe. 

I thought, and lived, according to numbers. 

If I was on the brink of intense emotions, numbers would help bring me down to earth; to reality. It made me strange to my peers. Eventually, it led to a relatively isolated life which suited me just fine. I never let it bother me because being alone was safe and comfortable.

"...124, 125, 126, 127, 128..." 

I was counting under my breath, just barely audible, as I mixed the pastel green paint can.

I decided today was the day I would paint the living room. It had been on my list of things to do for years; paint all of the rooms and eventually the outside of the house. My goal was to make it look less like an eye-sore. 

My motivation had been lacking for a variety of reasons. 

However, this Saturday morning was beautiful and I didn't have to return to any of my jobs until monday. I had the three windows in my living room & the two kitchen windows above my sink open to let the warm breeze in and allow the circulation of paint fumes.

I decided that all of the new paint for my walls would be pastels; yellow for the kitchen, green for the combined living-dining room, blue for her bedroom and bathroom. I wasn't sure what the outside should be painted yet, but I had time. 

There were plenty of small renovations that had to occur before paint could be put.

ShIe had been painting for 2 hours and 12 minutes when a faint voice reached me. Taking a moment to listen closer, I realized that it was familiar, and drifting in through the kitchen windows. Confused, I put down the paint roller and made my way to the kitchen to peek out the window. Before I could make it half-way through, there was a series of three quick knocks at my door and the voice calling out:

"Ms. Jeanne! It's Damien!" 

He sounds excited and hyper; definitely like the energetic child I'm is realizing he is.

I wondered if I was ever that way as a child, or if I had always been the more reserved quiet girl. I couldn't remember a time I wasn't. I opened the door expecting to see only little Damien again, ready to scold him for wandering so far once more, but was surprised to see his fathers' towering form behind him and the black truck parked in her driveway.

"Good morning, Damien. Why are you here today?" 

I greeted while glancing from him to his father, briefly, before looking back at the boy.

Damien was far cleaner than last time I saw him, about a month ago. 

It seemed his ankle had healed well enough considering he was bouncing on his toes without a grimace. I was surprised to see him here. I assumed that his fathers obvious distaste for me would have him keeping the boy far from this area. Before Damien could reply his father placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing my attention back up to his eyes for 2 seconds before I settled for looking between his eyebrows.

"Damien wouldn't stop asking to come see you again. It seems he has formed some kind of...attachment to you in the short time you spent together. I decided to bring him so he wouldn't wander over here alone. Again." 

The man's voice was not unkind; it even seemed to hold some curiosity.

"What is your name?" I asked, looking away from the pair to my car while wringing my fingers.

"Excuse me?" 

The man asked seemingly baffled.

I wasn't sure why, it was a logical question, I thought.

"Your name. Or what you would prefer I call you." 

I replied slowly in case it was still hard for him to understand.

I counted three beats before he responded, reaching out his hand for me to shake.

"I'm Anthony Houston. You can call me Mr. Houston." He introduced with a firm voice, hand hovering.

I actively ignored his hand, the thought of touching him and making him dirty, was enough to convince me to avoid it. 

Anthony dropped it back to his side studying the woman with critical eyes; he had never met anyone as antsy as her. He just knew that she had to be involved in something sketchy; very likely some form of illicit drug. It was a wonder why his son wanted to be around her. The only reason he was convinced to visit her home with his son was to investigate it.

"Well..." 

I trailed off unsure how to handle this 

"...Would you like to come in? I was painting the living room, I could use some help, if it is okay with your father of course."

Anthony nodded and gently pushed his son to encourage him to enter the door past me. I held her breath as Mr. Houston walked by my form, just in case he smelt of cigarettes, whiskey, pumpkin spice, or pine. I was in a relatively good mood; I didn't want that to be ruined by memories. 

I guided them to my living room, almost missing the surprise that flitted past Anthony's eyes. 

He was shocked with how clean and organized the inside was compared to the outside. It was almost sterile. No sentimental items or pictures in the areas he could see. Just clean and well cared for furniture with some accent items. The furniture and floors were covered in a plastic covering with Jeanne's painting supplies lined up neatly in the center.

Anthony watched as Jeanne picked up a sponge roller covered in light green paint and handed it to an excited Damien. She actively ignored him as they walked to the furthest blank wall showing Damien how to use the roller. From what he could see, she definitely didn't live in a drug den, but he was smart enough to know that it didn't mean much to have a clean home. 

Deciding not to stand in the corner the entire time, Anthony spotted another roller ready to be used. He prepped it, walked beside them and began painting the higher parts he knew they wouldn't be able to reach without a stool. Jeanne was busy answering the endless questions that came from Damien and barely noticed Anthony.

"What color are you going to do the kitchen?"

"Yellow, I think."

"And your other rooms?

"Blue."

"Are you going to paint the outside of the house?"

"Yes, eventually. There's a lot of work I have to do first."

"Like what kind of work?"

"Well..."

As Jeanne trailed off, Anthony realized she zoned out. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that she was staring at the floor. Her lips moved slightly. As he listened closer he could hear her counting. Assuming she was making a mental list of sorts he ignored her actions focusing back on his son who had continued painting and talking, not noticing Jeanne's silence.

It was the click of the door locks, a distinct noise I had trained myself to be hyper aware of, that brought me out of my trance. I had been focused on going over all of the maintenance my outdoor areas needed, and didn't realize I'd stop talking. Instantly my body stiffened, realizing that it must be my father. I hadn't seen him in a while, and thought that maybe he had finally disappeared for good. 

I was wrong.

"Um, I'm so sorry but it's time for you guys to leave. I have a guest-" 

I was cut off by the door slamming open and the sound of footsteps stumbling.

"Jeaaannnne! Where are ya' girl?!" My fathers' yells were  slurred.

Anthony immediately stiffened at the sound, and sight, of the inebriated man. He was older than both him and Jeanne, making Anthony assume he was probably her father. The older man was disheveled. Anthony could smell the beer from his spot across the room. He grabbed Damien's arm and took the roller from him, placing it on the plastic covered ground. Jeanne shuffled back further from her father, closer to Anthony and Damien, in a protective stance that Anthony didn't miss.

"I'm right here dad. Let me just show my helpers out, why don't you take a seat on the couch?" 

I said as I basically herded the two males towards the front door, keeping myself between dad and them.

"YOU don't tell me what to do! Get me a coffee and some food girl!" 

My dad bolstered while slumping down on the couch.

"Yes sir." I tried to placate continuing toward the front door.

After I was able to get Anthony and Damien out of the line of fire, and to the safety of the porch, I closed the door behind me. My heart was pounding and cheeks flamed with embarrassment. I stared at the shoes of Damien and his father counting to ten before looking up.

"I am so sorry about him. I completely forgot that he was supposed to visit. He isn't always like this. I, uh, thank you. For helping me today. I greatly appreciate it, Damien." 

I spoke with a softness that didn't betray my fear. Half of what I said was lies, but there was no way that they would be able to tell.

"Are you going to be okay with him like that?" Anthony asked; not out of concern, mostly, more so out of duty.

"Yes, yes, of course. I think you both should go though. Thank you again, for visiting." I spoke with a stronger sense of urgency.

I glanced at Damien's face and felt a tinge of sadness. 

He looked more concerned and confused than a little boy ever should. He shouldn't be exposed to this environment. No child should. It was another reason I valued my isolation; no one else got hurt because of me. Before Damien could speak, Anthony hushed him and nodded at me.

 They walked to his truck and I watched as they pulled out. It was as my eyes connected to Anthony's that a large slam was heard from inside making me jump and suck in a breath. 

The truck paused and Anthony's eyes narrowed at Jeanne's small form. He watched as she rushed back into her home. He stayed in that driveway lost in his thoughts for a few minutes, unable to hear the yelling happening inside from his truck. Damien's voice brought him back to reality.

"Why aren't we leaving Dad? Is Ms. Jeanne okay?" 

His innocent voice questioned, concern coating his voice.

"She'll be fine bud. Let's go get some food." 

Anthony responded, trying to comfort Damien, and trying to reassure himself. He actively ignored the very real worry for her flowing through his veins while they drove away.