"Fading (Back Into the Paint), Linda in June"
The walls in the bedroom are cornflower blue. She picked that color. I lie in our bed with my good headphones on, my eyes are open but even with Angie McMahon on, my ears feel somehow closed.
The walls in the living room are jade green. My choice. She sits in the big upholstered arm chair from her great aunt's house, wide awake but with her eyes closed, listening to absolutely nothing. Or as she'd say, listening to dried paint melt.
Sometimes compromises aren't arrived at - they're imparted, like teachings from an old and wise guru. Even when sometimes the guru doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about. If it smells like wisdom, maybe that'll do. I've had had boyfriends, girlfriends, dogs, cats, and a bunny named Clifton, and all of them required various compromises. Were those compromises smart and mutually agreed to? Maybe, maybe not.
Linda and I are both fading. Fading back into the paint.