Stolen Lines

For several weeks now, I have been painting pictures of watermelons. Over and over again. Green to black to white to pink to freckles of tiny black dots across the soft pink surface.
It's looks nothing like a watermelon now. Just a circus of colorful splotches, smeared across the canvas. Maybe I should start over? Like I've done so many times before. Or Maybe I'll keep this one. I do enjoy the stretch lines of the melon. Though those could be mistaken for ripples in a pond.
Maybe I should make it a pond? Who would know the difference but I?
No. I can't be half hearted through this all.
A Watermelon. How hard can it be you ask? Well I have been at it for weeks now. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's the way I'm approuching it that's wrong...
Should I lay on my side and paint it upside down?
I could throw paint on it. But I don't feel like cleaning that up...

"John come look at this. I think I'm done," My holler sang through out the old home, just as his heavy foot steps bellowed back at me. Waltzing in from some distant part of the house, my gangly man scratched his bushy chin and stared at the splotches on the canvas.

"It's a nice watermelon. I like how you drew it split open and spilling out. Lovely work darling," Tilting my head at my husband and looking at him as if he had lost his mind. It looked like crap. Maybe he was lying to me.

"Poppycock. Trying yanking my other leg," I scoffed. He chuckled lightly and patted my head before planting a soft kiss on my forehead.

"You, my dear, are deranged," That I might be. But this watermelon is the bane of my existance. 

"I'm throwing it out," I started.

"Why? I was going to hang it above the fireplace..." He groaned.

"Why bother? It's rubbish!" At this point I threw my hands in the air. Having given up.

"Why not? I find it lovely," Stubborn man. I'll let him do as he pleases. But I'm throwing it in the river as soon as he's not looking.