"Every week, when I call at Hannah’s house for my piano lesson, it seems her hallway is painted a different colour . . .
‘Zack!’ Hannah answers the door and smiles as though she’s surprised to see me, holding on to the latch as she steps back to let me in. Today the hallway is a deep red, far too dark, almost a burgundy. It makes me think of dried blood. There are flecks of burgundy emulsion in her hair still, counterpointing the flecks of grey. I want to kiss her right there, right on the doorstep. I fight it. I’m worried that I’m beginning to develop an erotic Pavlovian response to the smell of newly applied emulsion. That’s not normal, is it?
Read more in tomorrow's Woman's Weekly Fiction Special!