Roll Your Own

Stacy was an artist.
I thought she was a lunatic.
Maybe she was both.
She’d strip naked, cover her body in paint, and roll around on a gigantic canvas.
Blue. Red. Yellow. Green.
Color by color, she’d add to her artwork.
I mean, yeah, she was pretty, and the medium was kinda interesting, but it got repetitive.
Nobody told me that she always wanted to hug someone when she finished painting.
So, I was wearing a tux that night, so when she hugged me, I got pissed.
I slapped her, she slipped on the paint, and broke her neck.
Shit.