Lunchbox

I sat across from a painter today. He was reading the Boston Metro in long white pants and a cotton white t-shirt. Dusty spots of eggshell, peach and grey ran down the pants and along his boots. Between his feet sat a large personal cooler - red with a white handle. It was one of those house-shaped models where you push the red button in and rotate the handle to open and close it.

I was mesmerized by the peculiar contented smile that never left his face. I'd like to know what was in that cooler.