Faraway Girl

A breeze parts gauze curtains. It is neither warm nor cold. She stirs and her eyes blink softly. From repose, her body shifts and the sheet slips below her right breast. As this registers with me I wake up sated and alone and disturbed and the confusing dream trails away. I cannot, for certain, I can't recall her face and, but, the image of her body is an elegiac intaglio that actually hurts to think about.

Yesterday's coffee is rotating in the microwave. In a Morrissey moment I weigh the benefits of not existing. The coffee tastes worse than it smells. The curtains, the breeze, the tit, the terrible coffee, the hostile and empty house press down on my shoulders. My vision is obscured by black, cloudy ink.

I'm out.

I park near San Carlos Cathedral and I walk north on Figueroa to Wharf II.

The pier is a bony, wooden finger that bends and points at China Point with an unspoken accusation. At its knuckle I sit on a bench and I light a smoke. There are hints of bacon and chowder and taffy in the air. Tar and creosote and diesel and dead fish sting my nose. On the opposite side of the marina are freshly painted shanties that huddle and vie for attention on Fishermans Wharf, and in the distance beyond, the slope of manicured hills and the tidy buildings of the Defense Language Institute. Dogs I can't see bark and play along the bleached sand of Del Monte Beach. Tourists driving and meandering on the outskirts of the harbor honk and waddle and gawk. Swells lick and slap against the pilings beneath my feet. Wind spilling long hair across my face, the cigarette dry and sharp against my throat.

I look up at a passing couple and I hear, "...told you we shoulda put more money in the meter." The voice goes on to say, "This was a stupid fucking idea. Eighty bucks in gas just to sit in traffic and look at a bunch of boats. Another thirty for a Goddamned parking ticket." He is wearing cargo shorts and one sock is lower than its mate. A skull tattoo is visible on the pasty, hairy skin above the shorter sock. His T-shirt is black and it reads "Big Dogs" in red lettering. He says, "Monterey fucking sucks."

"I'm hungry," she says. "C'mon. Let's find somewhere cool to eat."

"There's a McDonald's back on the main drag. That's gonna have to be cool enough. I can't afford cool."

She is plain and, but, to my mind she is pretty. She is wearing a green, lacy skirt and a white blouse. No tights. She extends a thin arm and wraps this around the man and she tilts her head toward his chest. He twists free and he says something I cannot hear and the rest of their lives become lost to me as their steps take them into obscurity.

I light another cigarette and as I sit and I miss someone I have never met I watch a crew unfurl sails on a craft that has just rounded the breakwater. The jib and the mainsail form elegant, rounded shapes that cut against a contrast of blue and green. Like curtains of gauze in a breeze.