All the houses in the town were either white, or tan according to status. Where one neighborhood started out one color another eventually surprised one, like an ombre dye gradually escalating to a subtly different shade it started white and faded out to a deep tan. With every sandstorm the white disappeared completely, leaving everything the same mellow tone. But shortly after the sands settled down, the wealthy home owners would send out their servants to cover the building with an abrasive white. Every shade illuminated, the neighborhood would breath deep, filling their chests with the paint fumes before turning back inside to escape the heat.
The dusty storms sometimes raise up from elsewhere, some volatile region to the south typically. They send in the winds of nuisance frequently. But sometimes, sometimes the nuisance would become a destructive force as it raged on, growing in vehemence. It would build up its irritating grains of sand and dirt particles ready to wipe out the earth for the second time. Dirt is cleansing too in its own way, much like water, stripping everything in its path, omitting no one.
When these passed by the poorer among them just shrugged, used to the natural tan of their own homes, comfortable with the way it blended into the scenery, unobstructive to the surroundings. What did they care, they wouldn’t waste what they had on the temporary pleasure of costly white paint to cover up what they already knew to be the building blocks of their established home?