“What would happen if I ate Edgar Degas’ violet pastels?”

You’d probably get arrested.

“Maybe. But I wonder—what does Degas’ violet taste like?”

Probably something moody. Or like sweaty purple. I have a headache—can you hand me the
bottle of acetaminophen next to you?

“Why don’t you just call it Tylenol?”

Because it’s acetaminophen. The generic kind from the grocery store.

“That’s so weird. Everyone calls it Tylenol.”

Whatever. Just hand me the bottle, please?

“Look, the bottle’s even red and white, like Tylenol.”

But the label says A-C-E-T-A-M-INOPHEN. Please, just give it to me.

“Fine. Here’s your Tylenol.”

I tossed the bottle into the air and it landed hard on the wood floor next to the bed. I picked it up,
popped open the top, and shook out two red-and-white capsules. I swallowed them dry.

“Happy now?”