With the last few brush strokes he finished, looking at the eyelid he'd just perfected. It was a sweet paled pink, without eye shadow - she didn't need it. Her long golden hair lay over her left shoulder as she sat on the white wicker chair. Her eyes were closed in her heart-shaped face, as if she were napping. He had decided on a white tank top (bulged by her firm breasts) and red shorts that came halfway to her knees.

He leaned forward, touching his brush to a knuckle, covering the blue discoloration that had peeked through.

He was proud of his work.

He sat back and waited for her to rot.

It was Art.