Reverse Psychology

25: Relax, you'll like it.

Finally!!!

I rewrote chapter 7 if you want to check it out. Key word; rewrote not edited. I scrapped Boomers part off and tried to explain Bubbles better. I don't know if i did a good job but i did my best. I haven't even proof read for mistakes...bare with this lazy writer. I didn't edit this either, this is so late, i'm sorry. I forgot how to write.

BUBBLES
Building a museum didn't take a day like Boomer had predicted. He had miscalculated, I realized as we were agreeing to meet up by seven at his place Sunday morning. My fault for not finding out about his math grades before I let myself get manipulated with those baby blue eyes.

Undoubtedly, Boomer did manipulate me. Puppy dog eyes are generically a means of manipulation which can only be overcome by the coldest of hearts; even someone like me was moved. Granted, he knew of my weakness, he is a villain. He knew what he was doing when he got on one knee and stared with innocent eyes. I didn't suspect a thing.

The sunset looked beautiful that afternoon.

Maybe it's staring at a canvass for hours with a propinquity that challenged me, but I saw the clouds as art on a canvass. I could make out the delicate strokes of the brush that painted the afternoon sky a vivid purple, fading and merging into an orange that mixed well with a demanding blue.

The sun was fading, leaving a vestige of a hazy circle as it sunk into the horizon. It was colored sublimely with a precision that it evocated its candescent rays which I could feel on my skin.

I could paint what I saw at the moment. I could capture equally as artistically as the original artist herself. But Mother Nature would always be the superlative among artists as my work would lack ingenuity.

I wondered if the boy standing beside me felt the same way as I did when I turned to him, whether he would have had the mind of an artist or would have  appreciated such beauty with the orthodox disposition.

Boomer didn't paint as I had expected; a preconception from a studio being inextricable to painting. He built, ensuing the fact he was going to study architecture in college. His studio was a regular room converted to a work shop. He had a handmade wooden desk by the corner just beneath one of the two moderate windows, another work table that predominantly occupied the center of the room that now sat our finished project, and two stools.

"My dad doesn't like it when I sleep in here," was his reply when I asked about his absence of comfortable furniture.

The glow of the orange sky reflected on Boomer but did nothing in obscuring the dark patches shadowing his eyes. "Your eyes look tired," I noted, "did you sleep last night?"

He instinctively glanced at me; caught off guard, inadvertently giving an answer.

He replied my sigh and the shake of my head with a bargain, "I slept by three," He defended which I wasn't impressed by, he realized as I sat up, removing my head from the windows edge.

"You worked on the project didn't you?" I narrowed my eyes and frowned.

He nodded mutely, avoiding my gaze, eyes lowering to the ground.

I sent a pointed glance at the museum which we had made in the imagery of the Metropolitan museum but with only the most popular art pieces. I loved working on it with Boomer. It's the most challenging thing I have done to date but I wanted it to have been fun and not tiresome.

I don't scold anyone but I felt the need to at the time. When you care about someone you can't help but nag them for doing or having done something stupid, either that or slapping them up the head. And he is above six feet, my 5"3 self won't even reach his head.