It was in that moment, standing outside the storefront window of the Argo Tea, contemplating the three small chips in the acrylic painting that I realized, I could never marry him. “That one’s chipping, do you see it?” I asked. “Yeah I know, it was like that when I hung it. No big deal, no one will notice.” He said. “But —” , I silenced myself. What was the point anyway? In high school, acrylics had been my medium of choice. I bought it in jars instead of tubes so I could leave the caps off and let it dry up like paste. Tube acrylic was the consistency of snot, thin, runny and uninteresting. But all dried up and paste-like it could be manipulated into textures. I could layer and mix colors right on the canvas. Portraits of brown people were my favorite. I never mixed complexions on a palette beforehand, nor would I attempt to purchase skin tone paints. I loved to layer white, red, yellow, brown, blue. Everyone’s blood runs blue. Even behind the darkest of skin tones you can see hints of blue pulsing veins. I loved color.