repetitive

six

At first, I'm in a bit of a panic when I wake up and check the time on my watch. Then I remember that there's no school today from some random holiday that made no sense to have off. But hey, nothing beats a day out of work.

Something shifts next to me, and before I can turn to look I see my hand laying in a small puddle of spilt beer. There's at least five or six empty bottles. Then I look at my other hand, which is on the other side of Jackson McKillan, who is currently using my arm as a pillow under his neck as he sleeps.

And then I remember everything from last night. It was the most damn perfect thing to have ever happened to me.

I had given Jackson a tarp suit. Literally, it was a body suit made out of plastic, like shopping bags and shit. After I put my own paint-splattered one on I took him to another room where I had a huge canvas set out--quite expensive, but worth it. There were also large tubs of different colored paints ready.

"No way," Jackson said, laughing at the sight.

"Yup. Hardcore body art here, Jacksonny." I smirked as I pressed a button on my nearby stereo, blasting the music of a band Jackson and I always used to love, then approached him again. "What color?"

"I don't know! Ha-ha, Yellow?"

"You got it."

I stood right in the tub, soaked up to my knees in yellow paint. After stepping out on the tarp I had set up, I started walking right on top of the canvas, leaving behind dripping yellow footprints. "Come on, McKillan! Get a move on."

He had this huge grin on, as if he couldn't believe he was really doing this. He bolted over to the neon blue paint instead, dipping in his arms and then his legs before joining me on the canvas. He laid out on his back, doing some type of snow angle, but with paint.

"I'm like Picasso!" he laughed.

"Dude, anything makes more sense than what Picasso did."

Eventually I ended up dipping my butt into the red paint before sliding myself around the canvas. When enough paint had built up, Jackson and I began taking running starts before sliding all the way across the big canvas on our stomachs, leaving behind streaks of rainbow. It was just him I was with, so I wasn't afraid to laugh like there was no tomorrow. He's the only one I've ever been able to show so much emotion with.

From all the different colors, the canvas was at the starting point of turning brown from too many mixes, so I had us stop there. We were both dripping with colors, and Jackson had smeared blue across his face with purple on his nose, and we both just laughed at the look of each other.

We stood side by side, looking at our creation, taking it in. Then I said, "It looks like a pile of bullshit."

Jackson laughed loudly, giving me a playful shove. "Still better than Picasso, right?"

"Always better than Picasso," I agreed.

I allowed him use my shower for the paint that had gotten on our skin, and I let him borrow a change of my clothes since his own dirt clothes were ruined with colors that had gotten through the tarp suit.

But I showered first. When I was done, and he was using it, I was quick to set up our "lameass" dinner, as I knew he would call it. I didn't play any cheesy violin music in the background, just my usual rock and rap (but mostly rock, Jackson couldn't stand the rap I liked).

With Jackson came back in, I tried not to blush at the sight of him in my own clothes. "Hey," I greeted. "I know it's just Chinese, but what's the point of a fancy dinner if it probably doesn't taste that good? Might as well enjoy junk food you like, right?"