Wesley leaves, and he’s right, the acrylics are a way better medium. The paint stays where I ask it to, thick and vibrant. I begin to hum, swishing my brush, until Wesley reappears and plucks the brush from my grasp. I frown at my empty hand, still in midair, until he prods a new brush between my fingers. “Use this one,” he tells me, and disappears again. But not for long. Every time I turn around, he’s hovering in the doorway. I can’t focus while he’s doing that. “What?” He looks like he wants to backseat-paint so badly and can barely hold it in, pressing his knuckles to his lips, other hand
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