California is a tragic country - like Palestine, like every Promised Land.
The prefect evening...lying down on the couch beside the bookcase and reading himself sleepy...Jim lying opposite him at the other end of the couch, also reading; the two of them absorbed in their books yet so completely aware of each other's presence.
But now isnβt simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until β later of sooner β perhaps β no, not perhaps β quite certainly: it will come.
As they embrace, she kisses him full on the mouth. And suddenly sticks her tongue right in. She has done this before, often. Itβs one of those drunken long shots which just might, at least theoretically, once in ten thousand tries, throw a relationship right out of its orbit and send it whizzing off on another. Do women ever stop trying? No. But, because they never stop, they learn to be good losers.
Think of two people, living together day after day, year after year, in this small space, standing elbow to elbow cooking at the same small stove, squeezing past each other on the narrow stairs, shaving in front of the same small bathroom mirror, constantly jogging, jostling, bumping against each otherβs bodies by mistake or on purpose, sensually, aggressively, awkwardly, impatiently, in rage or in love β think what deep though invisible tracks they must leave, everywhere, behind them!
