That blotch

This morning's 100 words:

There's peach-colored paint smudged on the white ceiling of the room I'm writing in, splotches left of a long-ago paint job my husband did very late one night, just before we were leaving to go on summer vacation. He was so tired, the paint splotch tells me, but a mean-spirited voice in my head taunts, "He was lazy, too, for making a mess, for not cleaning it up." I stare at that splotch, that blotch, that blemish above me nearly every day as I write, as I search for ideas and inspiration from the ceiling and beyond.