Warpaint - The Fool -deluxe Edition- -2011- Review

June thought of her mother crying in the kitchen, pretending to chop onions. She thought of herself in the school parking lot last week, watching her ex-best friend get into another girl’s car without looking back.

“The warpaint.” The Fool tapped her temple. “In your head. The sound you make when you’re trying to be brave but you’re really just a fool.”

They didn’t speak again until the sky turned the color of a faded bruise. The cassette deck clicked off. The Fool stood, brushed the dirt from her slip, and kissed June on the forehead—cold lips, warm breath. Warpaint - The Fool -Deluxe Edition- -2011-

The Fool pulled a crumpled set list from her jacket pocket. It was handwritten on the back of a receipt:

The Fool was already walking backward into the fennel, dissolving like a song you try to hum but forget the melody of. June thought of her mother crying in the

She was wearing an old tuxedo jacket over nothing but a slip, and on her feet, mismatched socks. A jester’s charm, but a warrior’s stillness.

She handed June a small tin. Inside was a paste, dark as dried blood but sweet-smelling, like roses and gasoline. “In your head

“I’m not brave,” June whispered.