Back home, Andie and I have an argument about whether the color of Little Alamo is blue or green. Andie says green. “But your midsection,” I then notice from my position in front of her, the same one where it all started. “Is *that* blue?” I tested.
Andie looks down. “Same.”
“Same as in my opinion or same–”
“Same,” she cut me off here.
—–
“Perfection,” Mr. Babyface says about the Big E/Big Schwa on the table in front of him while huffing and puffing on his favorite tobacco brand Blue Pennant. Could have been talking about either blue, then. And this not long before his demise in that mysteriously appearing water funnel off the coast of Orgamast. Which he stares at here, realizing where he’ll die and then just as quickly forgetting about it, warning ignored.
—–
“You — we (she said after a pause) — have a Venus problem,” she summarizes, still standing before me with back turned to that interestingly colored, palm rimmed pool of non-Linden water. Placed there for a reason, I understood. Attractor.
Sunklands 