Watching Paint Dry

“D’you think it’s dry yet?”

“Dunno.”

“It took three hours yesterday.”

“Yeah.”
“Still, it was a warmer day. The day before, I mean.”

“Yeah, but not as warm as last week.”
“Yeah, it was warmer last week. D’you like the colour?”

“No.”

“I wanted blue but they would have this orange-red.”

“It’s more reddish orange.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“I like green.”

“Green’s more serviceable, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“Kandinsky said ‘green is like a fat, very healthy cow lying still and unmoving, only capable of chewing the cud, regarding the world with stupid dull eyes.’”

“A bit like your old woman.”

“Yeah.”

“I rather lean towards Paul Klee’s jactitation ‘Colour possesses me. Here is the meaning of the happy moment: colour and I are one. I am a painter.’”
“We’re both painters, mate. That’s what it said on the job description. They insisted in orange-red. It said sunset on the tin.”

“I ain’t never seen a sunset that colour. Well, not in Peckham.”

“D’you think it’s dry yet?”

“Might be.”

“Want a fag?”

“No.”

“‘Ow long has it been now? I mean, since we done it?”

“Dunno. You talk too much.”

“Sorry. I mean, sorry if I talk too much.”

“There you go again. Shut up!”

“All right. D’you think it’s dry at the bottom?”

“I doubt it. We started at the top.”

“‘Ow long do we have to stay here?”

“Until it dries.”

“When will that be?”

“’Ow do I know?”

“D’you think it’s dry yet?”

“Dunno.”

Jill Reardon