I was sitting in front of my desktop, trying to work desperately on the new design I was preparing for this rich guy. He came home from office, he sat next to me. Slowly, he put his hand on my right thigh. I knew he came right from the laboratory, perhaps he was smelling of chemicals. I was uncomfortable working, while his hand still trying to rub on my thigh. I shuffled a bit, he took his hand away from me. But the green stains remained on my mind. It was like a dull sticky green liquid, a dead algae, floating in water, or phlegm, or something, anything which was more disgusting than that.
He was a perfectly sick man, in mind and body. The mere presence of him was making his image uglier inside of me, day by day. Each time he'd appear in front of me, I saw him more and more grotesque, like a newly drawn water colour painting rubbed with dry cloth. So hard that eventually the paper torn apart, moistly. Each time I heard his voice, more and more chalks screetched on the blackboard, more nails were rubbed against paper.