Most Fridays, I work at the hardware store mixing paint. I grow to be covered in it by the evening's end. Tonight, a father brought his fifteen year old son in to price shelving a few aisles over. I need a person for perspective, he said, taking a photo of the boy in front of the only metal rack. And if it isn't this sturdy when we assemble it? My boss is named Satania. She doesn't have eyebrows, avoids answering everything. I hold a list of the colors I mix each day. For Fridays: winter-mood, bright biscuit, mermaid's belt, anonymous.