Ethan
Demyan pranced around the guest bedroom dressed in denim overalls he bought at the hardware store yesterday since he did not want to get any paint on the new clothes I had bought for him. He had tied his hair up in a tight bun and he wore working boots he also bought from the hardware store which he constantly complained about because they were uncomfortable apparently.
I knew he was an artist and always painted but I did not think he could not handle painting a wall with a full roller. He constantly let out a curse as a large blodge of paint landed on the floor which he scooped back up then practically threw on the wall in order to stop it from dripping.
I swore I loved him, I loved him with every single inch of my body but he was making a mess which made my job hard since I did not want mint green on the already white walls.
"Oh my soul, Etha-aan," he whined, pulling out the 'a-n' of my name, "Why am I so bad at this?"
