Great.
Now there’s a smudge cutting through what was supposed to be a soft gradient.
There’s also paint on my forearm.
And possibly my elbow.
I lean back to assess the damage and nearly knock over the jar of murky rinse water with my hip.
Fantastic.
My hair is twisted into a messy knot, strands already escaping and sticking to the side of my face. I’m wearing an oversized tee that used to be white but now carries the ghost of every color I’ve ever worked with.
For one wild second, I consider pretending I’m not home.
The knock comes again.
Louder this time.
More insistent.
I glance toward my private entrance.
No one ever knocks on my door.
Friends text.
Delivery drivers leave packages.
And my dad certainly doesn’t use this entrance.
Which means whoever it is knows I live here.
Or wants something.
I wipe my hands on a rag, which only spreads the paint more effectively, and head toward I wipe my hands on a rag, which only succeeds in spreading the paint more efficiently, and head toward the door with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I pass the paintings leaning against the walls, the sketchbooks stacked on the console table, the plant I constantly forget to water but that somehow refuses to die.
I open the door.
A courier stands there, holding a thick envelope.
“Miss Petrov?”
My stomach drops.
“Yes.”
“Delivery. Signature required.”
Of course it is.
I sign with a hand that’s steadier than I feel.
“Have a good day,” he says.
I shut the door gently and lean back against it.
