She couldn't resist…she leaned back to get a full view of the other room to make sure there was no danger of being immediately observed (and therefore stopped) before she planted all five fingertips of her left hand in a different shade of watercolor paint, then brushed the palm of her right hand with a coat of black.

 

Then, after looking over her shoulder again, she ran to one of the blank walls ("minimalist is what we're going for…those photos would create too much clutter") and smacked her right palm against the wall, while marching the fingers of her left hand around it.  The rainbow colors were transparent, the consistency of a flimsy silk slip.  The black transferred to the wall as grey and made a pleasing suctioning sound when she peeled her palm away.  She knew it was slightly destructive, absolutely vindictive and would inevitably lead to a polite fight over her apathy towards making a nice home.  She knew, but she didn't care; the release that followed her little trick engulfed her entire body head to toe and towards her soul.

 

She had tried to talk.  She had tried to scream.  She had tried it all in her head while he was none the wiser,