A lick of paint

In the back of an old warehouse, Billy found a box by accident. It's invisible. He walked into it in the dark and, after finding and turning on the lights, he saw the blood from his elbow sliding thickly down the air. He prodded at it with his finger and felt the side. He's sized it up; it seems to be a cube, about 75cm each way. He's shining a torch through it now to see if the light reflects or diffracts but nothing's happening, we can just see a weak yellow circle dancing across dusty crates.

He's decided to take it home but can't work out exactly how. It's not that it's heavy, quite the opposite, just it's going to raise both eyebrows and questions if people think he's miming carrying a box. What's he doing now? Aaah, there we go, he's painting it. He saw an industrial bucket of white emulsion and he's splatting it on with a rag. He'll go outside after this, lie in the soft dirt and wait for it to dry.

He's going to come back in and push it home and even though he'll forget to paint the underside, the thick grass field behind his house will catch the dripping emulsion and lick it across the bottom, giving it a scrappy but complete coating. He'll leave it in the garage and run in for dinner. Tomorrow he'll realise that he can't get the paint off and it will stay in the garage where his dad will eventually use it as a place to rest his tools. 

I wish we could tell him to stop.