20 September 2008. Two dark bird shapes against pinkish gray sky, heading west. Dawn. Ying behind pool counter, already smiling. Her ancient block-like Lincoln moored at curb, corroded grays in early light.
Llanura. A man of few words. Qué no dice mucho. Lo quería conocer, pero no se paraba de hablar... I wanted to understand him, but he just kept talking. Better to offer a smoke, see how he accepts it, lights up. The gesture. As in coiling a rope--something simple, revealing...
La cosa es así...
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