A year and three months ago a stray bullet caught Mina in the face, just grazing it. She has a scar that trails down her left eye, back to her left ear. The scar looks like one tear crying. Sometimes, lightning strikes twice.
The world felt like something awful impending. June gloom had set in early; Mercury was back in retrograde. Everyone was jittery, uncertain, a little gun shy.
It was an easy thing, that winter, to realize that you were not, in fact, you—rather you were the untitled, draft email of yourself, addressed to no one.
Everybody in that coffee shop was always standing around, walking into each other, then backing up and trying again, like Sims, walking into the fridge, backing up, trying again.
That morning at Rincon marked a change in my relationship to the dinosaurs. Fewer and fewer would muster when I called a session until I stopped doing it so much. Felt like I was bugging them.