"Not." I shook my head quickly. "I'm not afraid of getting dirty. Dirty is a part of art."
He pouted, nodding his head. Suddenly, his dirty hand touched my cheek, leaving a stain of oil paint there. "Now you're full of art."
I rubbed my cheek, finding traces of oil paint on the palm of my hand. My lips are open. Then let out a laugh. "You dirt me." I moved nimbly to the table with the palette still covered in oil paints, ran back to Marcel, then poked the blue paint on his nose. "We're full of art."
Unwilling to budge on me, he retaliated against me again by dabbing yellow on my face. I backed away from the other colors that were about to be poked at me, laughed amusedly, and did my best to reply with the same. In about a few minutes we got into a fight with oil paints. We both excel. Not only our faces and hands but our uniforms and alma mater were also covered in oil paint stains.
I ran away from him, circling the canvas and laughing. But my steps and laughter stopped when I saw a painting of a girl on the canvas, which also changed my expression to a gloomy one. Marcel painted a girl with pastel brown hair and blue eyes. It's definitely not me.
And I was too confident because he drew me the other day. Looking at the painting in front of me, it felt like I was stricken with 'Broken Heart Fever'.