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CLEVELAND, OHIO. 2018
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ESTELA LIKED TO BELIEVE SHE was an expert on many things art-related. After all, it was kind of her job to be.
She knew that oil paints dried much slower than acrylics or gauche, sometimes taking between hours or a number of days. She knew how to manipulate shades using color theory, and most importantly to never, ever use the same brush for one painting (though, that last bit is just simple common sense).
But as much as her pride tightly held a leash on her to keep her from admitting it, there was only one thing that she couldn't do: differentiate between shades of white.
It was a silly thing. White is white, there shouldn't even be such a stark contrast in shades. It was different compared to red, or green, or yellow, being a monochrome color and all that. She could already hear Stacey's voice in the back of her brain say, 'Don't be so bitter, Stela. That's just your pride in denial.'
Of course she was right, but Estela won't admit that.
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had been standing in front of the paints shelf for fifteen minutes now, contemplating which bottle to purchase. It would've been much easier if there were labels, but it was like the art gods wanted to have a hearty laugh at her suffering.
Clutching the canvas she was holding, Estela grumbled under her breath, "Fuck it," then took three bottles on the furthest left before marching to the cashier with a hasty glance at her watch.
"Long day?"
Her head shot up, brows raised as her gaze landed on the person behind the cash register, who was slowly scanning her things with a smile. It took a while for Estela to realize that he was speaking to her. She mentally cursed herself; it was literally only the two of them in the store.
"You could say that," she finally said with a small chuckle, already digging through her bag for her wallet.
"Yeah, I totally get you," he said, shooting another smile at Estela that did not go unnoticed. She shifted her weight to her right hip, already knowing what he was going to say as soon as she handed him the twenty dollar bill.
"So, uh, Stela-there's this new movie that came out-"
"I'm really sorry, Steve," she started apologetically; always the picture of polite rejection. "But I have to get going. We got a new painting in yesterday and the boss really wants it hung by the end of this week. Duty calls."
