At the end of the day, Z and I talk about sand: how it took the house in Eternal Sunshine. How the two boys eye each other in Bad Education. Our crush on Gael Garcia Bernal. Z suggests, “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.” I ask about “Everything That Rises Must Converge.” A tiny car parks outside. Death Trap, my dad would have said. Z’s friends ask about Paris without wanting to know. I propose Contempt. So much hope at the start, a naked Bardot in bed asking, “do you love my neck? my feet?” She’s betrayed by the American. Goes silent. She shouldn’t have to say anything, I think. Z is stunning and lost in thought. I’m Jim Carey watching the sand begin its slow destruction.
when the alarm is to call just before the purr of water rolls to boil, in the moment you can still make out the sun on the plane of trees, when I almost forget what it was to cross the Golden Gate Bridge in that mini-van on our way to Point Reyes, I catch myself. Time had its way. When cellos begin I'm afraid you might be in Saskatchewan, where I have no intention of ever arriving.