07 March 2008

Aviation Blvd., 1:32 PM

He drives an old Chevy Impala, deep-sea blue. She sits next to him, her hair hidden under a multi-colored scarf.  All you can see from the back window are her gold hoop earrings, dulling and brightening in and out of shade, as the car slips under early afternoon shadows from telephone poles, buildings, and the occasional tree. She's eating sunflower seeds from a bag, the kind that you chew and spit.

"Want some?"

"Okay," he says easing the Chevy straight at 50 with one arm steering in his white muscle shirt, jeans dirtied and boots muddied from the construction site.  She's still got her apron on, stained smeared and greased with reds yellows and browns from cooking in the kitchen. They're off work early today. She got fired and he quit. She pinches a couple seeds from the bag, reaches across and touches his mouth, slipping them in. Down her window goes, and she spits some of her shells out. He spits his in an empty water bottle.

"Beautiful day," she says.  

"Yeah," he says, stopping over the white line at a red light. The left turn lane's open and the light turns green. "Wanna check the beach?"

"Sure baby," she says, touching his arm with the back of her hand.

He pulls into the open left lane, the sun rolling on the car from fender to hood to roof to tail and off.  He does a wide turn through the light as it turns yellow and heads west towards the ocean.

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