MASKING TAPE

masking tape tastes like rubber, feels like skin, looks like the 80's and smells like tar. he stood in the middle of the room like an unwilling bug caught in amber, the job ahead of him stretching out like the long line of masking bright blue masking tape he had already layed out --a highway around the edges of the room, a border guard between the paintable and unpaintable. NO PAINT SHALL PASS THIS LINE. as if to warn the paint even more definitely, the tape was the bright blue of command. it gave the room a sort of 80's feel. on his knees minutes before, feeling the crumbs left by the residents of this house pressing into the soft parts between kneecap and leg bone, he had held the round roll in his hand, fingernail searching for the edge that would begin the long line, to begin to unspool it—it lay coiled, lying on itself, curled into itself, as he peeled up the end and began to pull it up and away the tape resists being pulled off the roll—as unwilling to do its job as he was. as he pulls it from itself it stretches slightly—you have to be careful not to tear it, though its pretty strong. carefully laying edge to edge, working his way around the room, eyes focusing on the minute. when he stands up to get a wider view of his work it takes a moment to focus as his eyes struggle to adjust.