The colour blue flew at the canvas with great speed, torque from the boy’s arm creating enough force to propel paint anywhere up to 5 feet away with great accuracy. He was trying to innovate, his mind fresh out of conventional ideas. Paintings, drawings, and sketches — they were all getting dull for him. Everyone was doing the same thing now, anyways. Landscapes, portrait, flowers, animals, buildings, oceans, and fruit had dominated the art world for far too long. The boy wanted to innovate, which basically meant finding weird ways to get paint onto the canvas. Currently, he, after watching a Planet Earth documentary on monkeys, was attempting to replicate s***-flinging (and the splatter effects thereof). He wanted the studio to be his canvas, not just the fabric on his easel. This ape-inspiration, coupled with his recent fascination with aquatic colours, led him towards his current project. It wasn’t too visually appealing, as it looked more like someone had shot a large paintball or a Fruit Gusher at the top-right corner of his 18 x 36 inch canvas. The splatter looked sad, the shape resembling feet instead of the intended splatter. Damn. He needed to get something going soon; every year, the boy made an attempt to submit a piece for his state-wide art contest. Every year, he’d create an anti-pop culture piece and every year, he’d fail. Still, he persevered.
Someone knocked  on the synthetic wooden door, creating a hollow, empty sound. “Hey, you doing fine in there? I brought dinner.”
S***, dinner. The boy glanced at the clock on the south wall. It was analog, so he didn’t understand what it said. He pulled out his phone. 2 AM. He always worked better past midnight, but more often than not, he also forgot to eat.
“Come in,” the boy called, as he wiped his blue fingertips on his apron. A girl around his height slowly entered the room with a bag of fast food, carefully trying not to touch anything. The scent of burger grease and faint ketchup mixed with the toxic gas the paint gave off, creating a sour scent. “Where did you come from?”
    “I was just on a walk, and I saw you through your window. You looked hungry,” she said. The boy forgot that he had left his blinds open, in plain sight of anyone that was in the park across the street. It was a beautiful view during, but past 9, it was scary. The park hosted strange events like pop-up fight clubs and cult rituals. That’s why he usually used the fire exit, as the alley was the safer night time option.
    “How could you tell that I was hungry?”
    “You start to scratch your left arm when you get hungry. I see it every time we go out for lunch,” she explained. She wasn’t wrong — he actually had a tiny patch of dried skin on the inside of his left arm, an inch away from his elbow. Elbow? It was the pit on the inverse of his elbow, so it was probably called the elbow-pit. He took a glance at his arm, the girl’s mention of it making him aware of the stinging sensation that naturally came with oxidizing an exposed wound. It wasn’t scabbing, but it wasn’t bleeding either. She seemed to notice the redness. Pulling a bandage out from her wallet, she gently covered the wound horizontally, so not as to get part of the adhesive stuck on the boy’s elbow-pit. “Never know when you’re gonna need one of these,” she said with a girn, crumpling the bandage wrapper into a ball, throwing it towards the garbage bin under the clock, and subsequently missing.
    “Smooth,” said the boy, reaching into the bag of fast food that the girl had set down by the sink. He pulled out a cold cheeseburger and a handful of fries. He started to eat, alternating between a bite of the burger and a fry.
    “Glad to see I’m being appreciated here,” said the girl, motioning towards the door. “I think it’s time for me to take my leave.” The boy chuckled, accompanying the girl to the door. He handed her a $5 bill and a handful of fries, wrapped in a cheap fast food napkin.
    “Take some for the road,” he said, nudging the girl out of the room. Her silhouette was roughly defined by the single flickering light bulb two doors down the hall. The boy turned on his hallway light, brightening up her face. She motioned to speak, but he cut her off. “No, no, no - don’t say anything. You’ll ruin my creative process,” the boy whispered. He shut the door and walked over to his easel. He bumped into his stereo, accidentally lowering the volume of the classical music he had playing (on the recommendation of his mentor, who had also gone through artist’s block many a time). In this time, he heard a muffled ‘goodbye’ coming from the hallway. He smiled as he picked up his brush again. He had a new idea.