Two tiny mason jars sit on the tabletop,
centers of attention, gray waters swirling.
Some brushes hit the water and turn invisible.
Others sit in the jar poking through
every which way.

Tubes of paint are cluttered
around the small table.
Some colors as bright as the afternoon sun,
others as dark as a basement with no light.
Color swatches act as a guide.
They sit warped and opaque.

Brushes glide across paper,
led by unskilled hands.
The speakers are spitting out lyrics.
We all shout along,
out of tune,
as shapes are filled and shaded.

The room is filled
with the distinct scent
of paint and the sound
of four best friends’ laughter.