I stare, weakly, at the painting, listening to the person next to me spout off all of the things wrong with it, disgust marring her fair skin as her nose wrinkles.
I want to protest so badly. I want to scream and cry and shout, tell her that it's fine, I don't have to change it, I like it. But I can't.
I can remember the painstaking hours of painting, the rough tip of the brush running down the canvas, reds and golds and forest greens. I don't know what i did wrong.
And suddenly i snap. "You know what?!" I say, furiously, eyes blazing, "If you don't like it, move on."
And she raises her chin at me and tightens her mouth into a straight line. "Fine." she says primly.
And I lower my head into my hands, the story of my life portrayed in colored chemicals on the coarse cloth in front of me.