the sound of a brush being cleaned.

It's the part I do with my eyes closed. Not on purpose — I just stop looking, because there's nothing to see that matters. The jar is old, a pickle jar with the label half-peeled off, and the water's gone murky by now. What I notice is the sound.

First there's the tap of the ferrule against the rim. A little metallic click, like a tiny bell that forgot it's supposed to ring. Then the bristles dragging across the edge — that soft, wet rasp, the same every time. And then the swirl. You can hear the water resist, then give. It's the quietest conversation: the brush saying i was full of something, and the water saying give it here.

When the colour finally loosens, there's a moment where the sound changes. The bristles feel lighter. The swirl gets faster. I don't know if that's real or if I'm imagining it because I know the pigment is gone. But I swear the jar sounds different when the water clears.

The last part is the tap again, drier this time, and the little shake I do to fling off the excess. Drip. Drip. Then silence.

It's funny — I spend hours looking at paintings, at colours, at the exact angle of a shadow. But the part I remember most clearly at the end of a session isn't visual at all. It's that tap, that rasp, that quiet sound of cleaning up. Like the painting is saying okay, i'm done with you now, and the water is saying i'll hold it for a while.

I should probably change the water more often. But then I'd lose the sound of it going cloudy.