The author is not responsible for things taken out of context. Adrift , floating on a vagrant current driven south across the bay by a breeze flowing over Pt. Loma from OB. Fees for love and free sex?
Strange as are some things I imagine, still stranger things happen. Much stranger things. Eetsalryet, natashah! To himself, he seems prescient. He really is.
As if this thought cued a camera, imagine if through her eyes, you can see her hands tap the steering wheel notice in the periphery, him watching her, and a quick glance up to his face. See again now through his eyes, her face, her head nodding in time with something indistinctly heard now over the sound of the engine, her eyes meet his for an indistinct mili-instant.
Are you the one? Through her eyes now, notice him looking at you, his mouth slightly open. He sees her window open as their eyes meet again. The signal changes. Through her fast receding rear window, he sees her brown hair reddened in the late afternoon sun through the rear quarter and back windows of the color saturated red Honda. Leaning back, my legs stretched forward, over the sides, drifting in the latitude of contemplation across Shelter Bay before a forest of nude white and silver masts against cold blue; a story unfolds in my imagination of the rolling clouds above me reforming, congealing dis-appearing.
I jot these notes down with a pencil on three by five cards I carry in a pocket of my Stearns lifevest. Cold blooded mega yachts, held like white bulls in liquid stalls are tethered by ropes to wharves they could easily destroy, their prows thrusted arroganly toward the entrance to the bay, tight-jawed, restless for release.
