It was 1964, and Paul was stuck, bedridden, with the flu. Their shows over the next week were cancelled due to his illness, and to say the least, he was not happy about it. He felt vulnerable, codependent, and helpless.

You and Paul were in a dimly-lit bedroom together — the lighting lowered to accommodate to his headache — and you were, much to his demise, taking care of him. Your hand was raking, gently, through his hair as he lay there, tired and ill.