Page 121 of Debugging Love

“You’d be surprised.”

Danni reaches for a black. I intercept her hand.

“Wait. We need to choose the right shade.”

She overrides my pause and grabs the paint chip she was after. “Black is black.”

“But it isn’t, though.” I rifle through the options. “You could go with Noir, Very Black, Night, Ebony.”

She props her hand on her hip and eyes me dully. “Those are all shades of black.”

“Exactly. Black comes in different shades.”

I pull out four options and hold them out for her. “This one is blacker. This one has a hint of green. This has undertones of gray.”

“You’re serious. Like, you’re really not joking right now.”

“I don’t joke about paint colors.”

She grabs Noir and then sidesteps to the pink. We go through a similar spiel, but she’s more open to suggestions since the pink comes in a much wider range of shades. She digs through her purse and pulls out a white pen with a pink cap topped by a Hello Kitty holding a starfish, waves it in front of the paint chips, and selects the closest match. Then she reiterates her belief that all paint brands are basically the same because they mix them in the same factory.

“No. This isn’t like generic food. They’re different. Very different. Mid-range is fine but DIYDepot is a no go. You’ll be able to scratch that stuff off with your fingernail. Especially on your bookshelves, and especially if we don’t prime them.”

“We’re priming the bookshelves?”

“The paint needs something to grip onto.”

“What does the primer grip onto?”

“The bookshelf.”

“How does the primer grip when there’s nothing to grip onto?”

I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Trust me. I Googled it.”

“Can I buy DIYDepot primer?”

“At your own peril.”

We go to the primers and choose a solid mid-range brand and then we stop at the mixing desk to put in our order. After that’s taken care of, we browse for accessories, she drops the cheapest rollers into the cart, and I grab them and put them back on the shelf.

“What now?” she asks.

“Those will leave lint on your walls. These are better. Plus you can rinse and reuse them.”

“I’m never painting again.”

I detect annoyance in her voice so I don’t question her choice of masking tape even though I know it might cause the paint to bleed beneath it. I’ll just make sure I run a fingernail over the edge before we start.

Her mood lifts after we pay and I suggest a stop at Maharaja’s for samosas, batata vada and chutney, and bubble tea. We get it to go and she digs in before we reach Wild Oaks. “Where has this been all my life?” she says after devouring a samosa and following it with brown sugar boba.

“India and Taiwan.”

“You’re so literal.” She smirks at me and then rolls up the end of the sack to keep in the heat. I let her carry the light stuff while I transport the Noir and Perfect Pink. She unlocks her door and ushers me inside. I quickly assess the worksite: two very full bookshelves, a chaise lounge, couch, dining table and chairs.

“I expected more,” I say, cans of paint still in my hands.

“Sorry. I’m not fancy.”

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