8/7/02
The black girders rose triumphantly, defiant in their lack
of detail. The clean lines of an abstract industrial swagger. Jennie sat
comfortably in the stainless steel chair. I sat across gazing, the lights
bouncing off her long black hair at odd angles. We were having Mexican at the
old Metreon foodcourt.
“How’s the guacamole?”
“A bit limey,” she said. “I think we should cut it with some
cumin.”
Jennie had always been taste sensitive, at least she had
been in high school.
“But Jennie,” I said, smiling, nervous, overthinking my
words. “Cumin is hard to come by these days.”
She looked into my eyes and took a no-look dip with her
chip.
“You ain’t kiddin’”
