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"Thanks for the time traveling," Josh said as he slapped my hand through the open driver-side window.
I said it was a pleasure and reversed down the gravel driveway through the trees. The light played tricks on my eyes like a fuzzy soft drizzle of sunshine. They can't shake that faraway look.
Everything was distant in my mind, like I'd spent the last four days climbing down a hole inside myself and the present was a little peep-hole at the surface. It's a long climb back to the top. Back to the place where things take certain significance again, and it's not just eating and stretching and trimming and sleeping anymore. Such a vicious cycle that was. Soul sucking. Depraved. Maybe the city will make things real again.
That was the thought as I hugged Highway 9's twists and turns to the Pacific. To PCH and a gallop north. Cloud cover retook the coast around Davenport.
It's Thursday, but it feels like Tuesday. The sun and the wind beat like it's a Tuesday, and the every weekday drawl is coming through the little cobblestone market square. The whole place is gray painted sheet-metal and yellow borders around the doors and the windows. The cobble is worn to different shades of dirt grey and spotted by shade from the umbrellas and trees.
The sun shines glare off the silver tin tables, and the wind whops with swirls in the tiny square. Swift Street. It smells different now. There's still the sweet bakery aromas, still the tall shy-type models working at the boutique next door. No, that hasn't changed.
It's a subtle bite in the air. A familiar feeling that's missing. This hole isn't home anymore. Life's picked up and moved on. Things have changed. There's a ghost in me of the shadow past, and now I'm sneaking through this younger world now, and everything looks like weed.
And my trim hand's cramping.
And we’ve all chosen to do this with our lives. So it better be damn good. It better be worth it.
