4/11/13, America, California, Santa Monica, Finn McCools Irish Pub 2:14 P.M.

A rugby game is on. Ellen and I sit in silence with our beers. The bartender meanders behind the bar. No one else is around. In the morning, we made up. At check-out, the receptionist lets us stow our stuff in the lobby until our flight

We do laundry, eat lunch, and end up here. We go across the street to Starbucks to use the free Internet when we finish our drinks. Back at the motel, we call a cab to the airport.

Our flight isn’t until 10:55p.m. We arrive at our gate at 6. The people-watching for the next few hours is mildly-satisfying until they call us on board.

Finn McCools

4/10/13, America, California, Santa Monica, The Commons, 7:46 P.M.

I tell Ellen it’s for agreeing with him when she asks me what’s wrong. We leave The Commons after I had just finished yelling at someone named Joseph, a twenty six year old farm hand that cut his own hair and wore Vogue glasses. We were arguing over the fall of socio-capitalism due to either passive or assertive anarchism. She may have supported one of his points but I can’t remember. I was drunk.

We stop into a vegan place for dinner. We fight some more. The subjects jump back and forth between anarchism and our relationship. Ellen is furious and leaves after paying the $55 for an uncooked black-bean burger between two crackers and shaved cucumber pasta.

On the street, she walks ahead of me. I mind my pace to keep the space between us as open as possible.

The Commons

One of the four I drank.

4/10/13, America, California, Santa Monica, Sea Shore Motel, 11:30 A.M.

We’re early. Check-in is at 2, but the receptionist says he can have the room ready by 12. We eat lunch at The Novel Café just West of the hotel before Hollister Ave. The food and service are fine but Ellen gets a carrot shake with ginger, which tastes like carrot juice with flat ginger ale along with a veggie wrap. I have French toast and a cup of coffee. We talk about the cab ride from the airport, shops, and then walk back.

The room for one night is $150: 2 doubles, 3 chairs, a recliner, a table, a nightstand, a mini-fridge, a flat-screen, towels, and assorted toiletries, all of which fashioned in 1960’s Hawaiian chic. Neither one of us comment on the bamboo our entire stay.

4/10/13, America, Maryland to California, Bowing 757, 8:23 A.M.

The man in front of us, row 25, seat C, is balding. Beneath his comb over is a scar. Or a scrape. Or a scab on the crown of his head. An abrasion caused by repeated head scratches to difficult questions? Where he rubs as an identifier for how bald his baldness really is? A scab to scrap open if insufficient hair gel is encountered?

These, and other questions, occupy me during the 5 hour flight from BWI to LAX.

4/10/13, America, Maryland, Dulles Airport, 6:07 A.M.

We arrive sooner than expected. From 100 to 95, I checked my email on my iPhone 5, then Facebook as we got on 495. By 66 I was staring out the window. The girls sat up front, chatting. Ellen would occasionally look back at me to see if I had been paying attention to some remark that was made. I keep from embarrassing myself most of the time by not asking what, smiling instead as if I couldn’t help but agree. At the terminal, Erika hugs us both then drives off.

The steel counters and columns reinforce the mechanical process of boarding our flight. Most of the people I say hello to give only one-word responses. Some do nothing at all. Ellen and I stay close. She asks if I have my boarding pass before and after every security check until we’re on the plane. I’d be mad, but I can’t blame her. Before checking our bags, I admit to losing the identification tag she had made for me the day before. I don’t tell her I remember having it in my hand before leaving Erika’s. Eventually I find it in my wallet when buying a cup of coffee near the gate.

I text message Erika to see if she made it home all right moments before boarding. She went to a Starbucks near her place to get some work done, not wanting to wake Hunter again.