How we are

We are in my kitchen, his back is to mine and we work at opposite counters to do one of the things we love most: crafting simple and satisfying meals. The air is on and it’s as though summer has hit Los Angeles too soon: the high was ninety degrees that afternoon. The air conditioning hums along but it’s not enough; we’ve pulled back the sliding door, the large kitchen window and flung back the blinds in every room. A soft evening breeze saunters through.

We are quiet. Miles Davis is heard from my notebook, soft and soothing and it’s just Us. The scent of raw garlic and the chop-chop sound as he slices bell peppers and zucchini. The curling crisp crunch as I peel an onion.

We move quietly and in tandem to fetch spices, wine glasses, a fork. He places his hand on my stomach and his arm curls around me in a halfway hug as we swirl and switch places.

Outside, my neighbor laughs. Someone walks by the open window and glances in. And there we are, humming about inside like two lightning bugs in the glow of the tiny galley kitchen.

Chop-chop.

**********
We are on our way to a show at Troubadour. The night is an ink black and we are surrounded by the city lights of West Hollywood. I flip on the seat warmers in his car.

“I knew I was going to like you the night we met,” I blurt out.

“You’re just drunk,” he teases.

“Nope.”

There’s a long pause as he maneuvers through an intersection.

“I can still remember the way you smelled. That night,” he says.

“My perfume? That night?” I didn’t realize we were still talking about it.

“Yeah.”

And then he tells me to look for parking, his voice nonchalant.

In the darkness of his car, I shine.

*********

“You truly are a simple creature, aren’t you?” he observes.

“If you can’t enjoy the simple things in life, what else have you got?”

We’re shopping for food. Pizza supplies and vegetables and beer. We are walking through the dairy aisle and he grabs chocolate milk.

He casually opens the milk as we shop and stroll the aisles, passing the bottle back and forth. We look wild and disheveled, both wearing torn up jeans and sneakers, him in a hat, his face tan and tired, a reminder of long days spent beachside. Tonight was my first night riding on his scooter through Brentwood, zooming across the expanse of apartments and condos, among the yuppies walking at dusk.

We get to the parking lot and he puts my helmet on and I feel like a child. He buckles the strap tight underneath my chin, though we’re going just three blocks. My hair sticks out from the helmet and I stand there with the chocolate milk. He laughs and I give an impish grin.

He snaps a cell phone photo and we’re off.

Back at the Brentwood Chateau we feast on bruschetta with just one light on, we’re too tired to turn on any more. Our fingers are greasy with olive oil and we devour the mess of tomatoes and garlic and basil.

“What would our time together be like if we didn’t cook?” he asks.

“I am not sure.” I say.

And then: “I am pretty sure I will always think of us and think of food.”

********

I am on a swing and pumping my legs and it’s as though I am eight-years old again. Higher and higher I swing, I can’t go high enough. The night air is heavy with traces of salt water and in front of me a gray-black mass roars and gurgles: the ocean. To the right of me the lights of the Santa Monica Pier shine and I hear cries from the tourists riding the ferris wheel. The electricity of it all spills over, onto the beach, into the waves, pumped into the sand, through my body and into my legs.

And then I let go of the chains and push my body forward. My hair flies back and I am plunged into the night darkness. I catch my breath just before I land on all fours in sand.

He is already there, lying on his back about five feet from me, panting and staring up into the night sky. It’s hard to tell who has flown farther. I crawl his way and look down at him.

“Again.”

And again we sit on the swings and we swing in unison. Two silhouettes swinging at night on the same pendulum. We do this over and over and later and later until we drag our bodies back to Third Street and realize we’ve missed the last bus home.

We are tired and happy, with sand in our toes and on my dress.