Erin Ginger ignored it, wiped the small stool where George Stephens had sat with a tissue, and picked up the paintbrush again to continue the unfinished painting from earlier.
George Stephens changed his clothes.
He wasn't wrong; the pant legs were indeed a bit short.
He walked over, placed the dirty clothes under his butt, sat next to Erin Ginger, and rested his chin in his hand watching him paint.
After a while, he asked, "Is painting really that fun?"
Erin Ginger kept his eyes on the canvas, responding, "It's okay."
"Just okay?" George Stephens furrowed his brows, "If it's just okay, why do you come out to paint every day?"
Erin Ginger glanced at him, then withdrew his gaze without speaking.
"I'm talking to you."
George Stephens was dissatisfied.
"Because painting is hard. It's the only thing you can't learn in one go," Erin Ginger replied.
George Stephens pursed his lips, "Such big words."
