The penciled affair

I have been having an affair.   With this handsome box of 72 Derwent Coloursfot pencils I met at Jerry's Artarama .

I was lured by a 20% off coupon and tales of a suburban art supply wonderland .  Suburban it was.  But wondrous?  You have no idea. 

The minute I saw the sets of thick natural paint brushes - three steps past the front door - I knew I was a fallen woman.  And sly.  Told my beloved to give me some space: "I can't concentrate with you looking over my shoulder like that.  Go look around or go wait in the car.  I'll find you when I am done."

I used my don't mess-with-me-I-have-claws tone of voice.  I hinted at prior agreements to give each other's space in the relationship.   Mumbled a veiled threat about stress at work.  We wouldn't want me to have a nervous breakdown in the calligraphy aisle now would we?

Of course we wouldn't.  I was free to plunder the motherload, pile sketchbooks, ink, pencils, tortillons and rolls of paper in my blue shopping cart.  I could squeeze the tubes of acrylic with impunity, inspect the accuracy of the compasses, check the firmness of the erasors and try the colour pencils.

Oh the pencils!

I tried to resist.  I did.  I reminded myself of the six boxes of colored pencils I have taken in over the years, of the emotional and physical toll of carrying a full set of  Koh-I-Noor woodless Progresso pencils with me to work every day.  I did my best to recall the disappointing courtship of that set of 24 Prismacolor Premier pencils that failed to deliver.  And what about the loss of that vintage Berol azure Colourcraft that had belonged to my ex-husband.  Was I truly ready for the responsibilities, the ups and downs of another relationship?

I was ready for the thrill. 

The pencil box and I have been spending lots of time together.  We've met for breakfast every morning this week and we've played long into the night.  We've even spent some time in bed together and it was glorious. We've had to have the talk about boundaries already. All pencils must return to their box before the lights are off and there must be space enough on the dining room table for me to eat. 

And no calls during the day.  I will not drive home for lunch for a quick color-tryst.

Or if I do, it'll be only once, for a quick burst of orange with a touch of purple and maybe a dab of sienna. Nothing too serious.  Nothing like a bite of the forbidden apple.  Right?