The watercolor shop on Maple Street has begun issuing thimble-sized glasses to every brush. Before a color is allowed on the page, the bristles take a quiet sip, swirl once, and glance at the paper as if asking whether this is a good moment for a drop.
We asked at the kiosk next door. "I thought they were only being fussy," said a man with a bag of pears. "Then I watched a sable wait for the sketchbook to nod. After that I stopped tapping the counter."
In the shop's little book of thanks, someone wrote: "The blue one rinsed twice. The cloud came out quieter." The keeper, who mixes paints in the window, says the glasses hold only water, and the nodding is only manners.
A day later the geranium on the sill had a pale round dot on one leaf. The keeper left it there. "She asked first," he said.