"Sacha! What are you doing."
"B-Dog! I'm at home! Just drinking some girly drinks with some girls." She always sounds so happy. So happy and so nonchalant. "What are you doing?"
I'm sure I don't sound so jolly, but I try. "I just got off work and umm... spliff?"
"We just rolled one! Get over here!"
"Yay! I'll be there in five." I take off full-speed down Main Street in the early night. Under the 7 o'clock moon. Through red lights. Weaving around open car doors. It's November, but the air's still too nice for Fall. It's an Indian summer in Los Angeles this year. I don't even have a sweater on. Just some jeans and a free t-shirt from the shop, and the cold barely nips at my skin. Not shivering. Alive-feeling. Living to a Cotton Jones soundtrack on my bicycle.
Sacha's porch is on the bike path in Venice so the breeze blows sand and salty to her doorstep. The gate's unlocked when I get there, and there's muffled laughter and French and music coming from the door. I love it here. It's a place that feels like home to me. Sacha's is somewhere that always takes the stress out of a day. When I walk in, she's sitting at the couch with her friend Tessa. Her chihuahuas George and Milan are both set on the adjacent love-seat, on a big blue pillow with white anchors on it. Sacha made the cases herself. She makes a lot of things, like chairs covers and porch covers and hanging lanterns and refinished side-tables checkered with tarot cards.
[stop]
You may not remember, but Jade is a beautiful person with blonde French hair, blue eyes, and a fairy white face with whispers of sun. Her disposition is sharp, but personable. French. I wonder. And it warms me.
