It
took us more than three hours to get up to Gualala, and that was after flying
into San Francisco. A drink is definitely on the menu. We find adjoining seats
at the bar and survey the goods. Mostly it’s beer on tap. Some wine, some basic
liquors, and really, that’s about it.
“I’m
getting an IPA,” Evan says. “They’re known for that here.”
“Here
as in Bones?”
“No,
dummy,” he says, and kisses me. I’m not sure whether to take the statement or
the action more seriously. “Northern California.”
“Like
you know anything about this place?”
There.
Retribution for the dummy comment. If
it stings him, though, I can’t see it. Instead the line becomes just another
one of those unexploded grenades, the ticking that underlies our marriage. Maybe
it’s not just our marriage. Maybe it’s every marriage, even the happiest of
unions.
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