Carmy takes a last drag of their shared cigarette and puts it out. "Painting," he decides, not sure he can get away with leaving the pool area all together even if he's gonna pretend not to see anyone trying to get his attention for service. Fuck it, he's on break.

He'll even slip his cabana boy shirt off to make it clear he's done with that shit - and to avoid getting paint on it. He looks around through the paints, collecting a plastic egg carton with neon body paints squirted into each cup. Ballsy choice, paint, but he feels like he's burnt out his anxiety trying to play waiter throughout the afternoon, so he's a little less repressed than usual.

"Can't find a paintbrush," he says when he rejoins her, taking a seat at the end of a long lounger with a foot tucked under his opposite thigh.