DRAFT

Artist, Writer, and October 25th

October 24th, and the Writer was lost in the mall.

To be exact, she was lost within a shop filled with art materials with an intense smell of paint and oil, looking at the countless displays and items that she can't even pronounce. There were towering easels that she can imagine be bigger than her roommate, various sizes of paintbrushes and prices that made her brows raise a bit, and the colorful paintings/art filled the shop.

The place was making the Writer dizzy.

"Ah, the joys or colorful harmony!" Marlon, who was suddenly dragged by the Writer to the mall after his workplace was invaded, savored the scent of paint around him.

"Why are there so many bright colors?" the Writer questioned, avoiding the neon colored items in the glass cabinets.

The Spanish-born artist pouted realizing why he was in the art shop in the first place. "I know I should be happy and all, mamacita, but I can't help but feel jealous," he complained while looking at the drawing pencils, examining the quality.

The Writer groaned and avoided any places that has a stronger paint smell. She thought that if given a chance, she could've dragged some other artist to go shopping with her, but with her 'selective' list of friends, she was stuck with the Spanish annoyance. That and she only knows where he worked because of the costume incident. "Just look around." She picked up one of the paint tubes from the corner of the display counter and furrowed her brows. The label showed 'Bath Salts' hue. "Do you all have a colorname for everything?"

"Oh yes, we have these so called 'bastard-amber', 'Sang-de-boeuf', and my oh-so favorite, 'Puke'. It's not literally puke, it's some kind of socks color from way back." The Spanish artist looked at the paint tube that the Writer was holding and shook his head. "Not that, mamacita. She already has that."

It was the tenth item that Marlon rejected what she thought she could buy. Oh how the Writer wanted to set fire in the whole shop and be done with it.

"You know, for a group of people with a dedicated shop, buying things for your lot is harder than finding a needle in a haystack," grumbled the Writer, discarding another rejected paint tube.

Marlon shook his head. "Ah, but mamacita, it is just my friend who is hard to buy something." He grinned and spread his arms wide as if planning to hug the aloof Writer. "If you ask me, I would accept any gift if it came from you."

The Writer wanted to burn the shop down and throw Marlon in it as well.

Ignoring the flirting Spanish guy, the Writer roamed around the shop until she stopped before the rows of big boxes. She looked at the said boxes with interest, seeing how it was related to technology which she is somehow aware of.

"Oh those are expensive as hell," said Marlon, pointing at the prices of each box. "Especially that one box with a jackstone-ish design." He pointed at the boxes with the price that would make anyone think twice of buying. "My friend did said her tablet needs replacing since Sabine sat on her old one and kinda broke it... the response of it is a bit off."

The Writer hummed, curious about the white box with the image of three people in a circle.

Marlon saw how the Writer was staring at the box the Writer was looking and his eyes widen. "No way... they're expensive, mamacita. Like, seriously, near 100 thousands of Pesos!"

The Writer shrugged. She pointed at one of the boxes and looked at Marlon with her famous pokerface expression. "Bring that to the counter."

"Did you just hear me saying it was ex—"

The Writer raised her brow, challenging Marlon to continue what he was going to say.

The silent challenge and the previous encounter with the Writer brought shivers to Marlon's spine. "Oh, that fire! Mamacita, you bring such vigor to this man's heart." He took the said box and brought it to the counter.

The next day,the Writer told the she was called by her Editor. But before she left...

"Clean the apartment. You and your rowdy friends made a lot of mess last night," the Writer said to the newly awaken Artist. "And if you find any box at the living area, you can have it," she said in her usual deadpanned tone, leaving the Artist to clean the whole flat.

Without even a single complaint and acknowledging that she and her friends were indeed rowdy the night before, the Artist complied. She cleaned the flat until she was in the living area, ready to clear out whatever garbage she and her friends left there. When she was about to clean the table, she saw a box wrapped in brown paper with a sticky note attached to it and picked up the note.

"You deserve this," the Artist read out loud.

Removing the sticky note, the Artist unwrapped the box and was rendered speechless at what she was looking at. A white box which she can assume was more than 16" with 'Wacom Cintiq Pro'. She almost dropped the said box after reading the label on it.

It took the Artist a few minutes to gather her bearings and run her right hand over the glossy box. "Well I be damned..." she whispered, admiring the look of the shiny box. "What the actual fuck... how much does that woman earn..."

Another sticky note was plastered on the side of the box and the Artist took it and read it out loud.

"Happy International Artist Day."