Today's writing

She turns and I realize – certainly not for the first time – how gorgeous she is. It’s such a unique thing, her looks. The eyes that can flash over the most minute things – good, bad, in between. The lips that don’t need gloss to be distinct. The teeth that without intervention – no braces, nothing – stand straight and white despite coffee drunk and the occasional cigarette smoked. Speaking of which.

 

“You want to go outside?” I flash the pack of American Spirits that I got before we left. She raises an eyebrow.

 

“They allow smoking here?”

 

“Why wouldn’t they?”

 

“Because no one does anymore.” She looks at me for a moment, concentrating. “That’s why you tasted like that.”

 

“Tasted like what?” But she nailed me. I’d snuck one in Jenner when she went off to the bathroom. Only got halfway through it before she came out, bitching that there was no toilet paper, but that was enough. The only reason she didn’t smell it on me before was that I made damn sure to keep the smoke away from my clothes, waving and waving it over toward the bay. But I hadn’t remembered the basic: brush your teeth. I guess I figured the coffee would cover the scent. Nope.

 

“Shut up,” she says, “and let’s go investigate the deck.”

 

It extends off the kitchen, accessed by a sliding-glass door. I get the sense the people who came here before us had a kid, a young one, who kept trying to let the dogs out this door. That kind of mischief that you laugh about after the moppet is in bed, but that in the moment causes you to grind your teeth like a damn combine harvester. I don’t know where this is coming from. I can just see them in my mind like I can envision any other memory. Maybe St. Orres is making me psychic. I’ll take it. It can be a new career path.

 

Twin chairs, a small table, and on it an ashtray. An unusual thing in any Northern California outpost, but particularly where fire is such an alive thing. Smoking and wifi. Maybe we’ll stay here more than a week.