Page 90 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
“Teal?”
“Yes.” I smile.
“What for?” she asks.
“My best friend is getting married this weekend,” Wyatt says. “And the matchbox covers have a typo in the bride’s name, and we need to change an ‘i’ to a ‘y’ on each one.”
“I meant, what’ll you be using them on? But that works too.” She stands from her stool and motions for us to follow her.
The room smells a bit like incense, but the space itself is kind of incredible. Nothing hangs from any of the walls. Instead, the walls themselves are all pieces of art. Rather murals and paintings, drawings, and sketches. Some with hand-drawn frames around them, some without. Some walls interconnect to continue a scene, and some stand-alone. Like the windchimes, I can’t tell whether this would be a peaceful or distracting space either.
She leads us into another room filled with supplies. One wall is covered in dozens upon dozens of cubbies filled with pens. They are separated by color, but as we get closer, she also has them separated by medium.
“Are the matchboxes matte or glossy?”
“Glossy,” I say.
She nods and moves a bit to the right. “Are you looking for alcohol-based or oil-based?”
“What’s the difference?” Wyatt asks.
“Alcohol-based dries through evaporation and adheres that way. Oil-based dries through oxidation and adheres that way.”
“What’s the difference as far as how they look when you use them?” I ask, hoping that will get us more of the answer we’re looking for.
“With the oil you run the risk of it feeling a little raised when it dries.”
“I think we want alcohol then,” I say.
“What color?” she asks.
“Teal.” Wyatt nods.
“Yeah, I got that,” she says drily. “I need to know what shade?”
“Shade?” Wyatt asks.
“Of teal. I got pale, bright, cadet, aqua, common, Caribbean, crystal, dark.”
“Maybe right in the middle,” I say. “We didn’t even think to bring a matchbox with us. That was really dumb.”
“Speak for yourself,” Wyatt says. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a dented matchbox.
“Well, that about looks like you squished the hell out of it. What’d you do, stop for a quickie on the way here, leave your shorts on?”
I laugh.
I can’t help it.
Wyatt’s face turns a unique shade of scarlet.
Blanche:I would say that’s more crimson.
What is crimson anyway?
Blanche:More a deep red, verging on purple.
He’s not crimson.
