The first time I ever painted with acrylics was in the waiting room of the Lombardi Comprehensive Cancer Center. The room, although spacious, well-decorated, and illuminated by dancing rainbows of light from the stained glass windows, was Hades. Empty chairs surrounded me, a deafening silence enveloped, ringing with disquietude. I felt small. That is, until the sound of the metal door hinges unapologetically scraping broke the leaden lull. A man strolled in, toting a leather messenger bag practically as weathered as he was. Staring down at my pink Mary-Janes, angry that the Earth has yet to open up and swallow me, I heard the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes approaching on the laminate floors. There must have been five thousand available chairs in that room, but the sound of the footsteps stopped next to mine.
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Without speaking, he opened the small front pouch and pulled out a set of paintbrushes bound together with a worn rubber band. I pretended not to notice when he situated one in front of himself, and another in front of me. He emptied the remaining pockets and divisions of the bag, and like he was setting the table, placed a half sheet of canvas paper, three tubes of acrylic paint (red, yellow, and black for himself, blue, green, and brown for me), and a Dixie Cup filled with water from the cooler in front of both of
Without speaking, he opened the small front pouch and pulled out a set of paintbrushes bound together with a worn rubber band. I pretended not to notice when he situated one in front of himself, and another in front of me. He emptied the remaining pockets and divisions of the bag, and like he was setting the table, placed a half sheet of canvas paper, three tubes of acrylic paint (red, yellow, and black for himself, blue, green, and brown for me), and a Dixie Cup filled with water from the cooler in front of both of