10 April 2008

She preferred the mimosas at the Waldorf. She said the orange juice was just better there and who was I to argue or complain? Even though I knew the maître d' and I knew the Waldorf used Simply Orange just like we did at home. But baby was convinced the Waldorf orange juice was just sweeter. So we went to the Waldorf every Sunday for brunch.

And I believe it was that same night we drove to the beach and chased that fingernail moon down until we got as close as we could. So close we really thought we could touch it if we tried. Then the sun came up and her hot pink Barbie heels were full of sand and the madras blanket we’d used for a bed was wrangled and wet. The shore had washed up to greet us and I played blindly with a piece of kelp that had become tangled between her sweet peach coloured toes.

“Press eject and give me the tape”, I said. Our ghetto blaster had survived the night and I was glad to see it was still there. We popped in some Dylan, I think it was tape #3 of the Biograph box set, and shared what was left of the Pinot noir while feeding the seagulls the rest of our crackers et fromage. Then we fired up the truck and drove home.

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