"We can finish painting this place in no time," Brooke announced, taking another sip of Riesling.
We were seated on the floor, with several boxes of my prized possessions serving as our cocktail table. Carly had thoughtfully provided cheese and crackers and olives. Very thoughtfully, since if we continued to drink wine without any food, my apartment would look more like Pee Wee’s Playhouse, after a surprise visit by Jackson Pollock.
I looked around at the splashes of paint we’d managed to get on the walls. It was July, so it was hotter than the current teen singing sensation, and so humid it wasn’t likely the paint would dry before Santa’s elves packed up for the season.
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