Lisa couldn’t believe she was actually standing in her pajamas at 2:20 am--but even stranger, fielding questions from someone she hasn’t had at least one paragraph in their history, until now.
But she was drawn in to his words, his fit frame, his deep seated eyes and maybe now what he called his truth.
He spoke with passion about everything that came from his mouth, as if he could do the same describing a bowel movement.
She had to reject him. She had to pull back. She had no time or energy to see this play its way out. He was the desert that lay out in front of the great Baja race, and she would rather watch it on TV than participate.

Two years ago, Lisa sat next to Christopher. He was on his way to California, and they both waited as their relationship gathered itself in front of a firing squad. She stared out at the planes, the workers. He held tightly to a cup of coffee and read the Sun times. In the car over there,they exhausted themselves through closing arguments, and she resorted to fidgeting with the radio stations, as picked a spot through the windshield and focused.
They had met first in high school in a ceramics class. His coffee mug was not hallowed out well and exploded in the kiln destroying everyone’s midterm exams. He denied it to the hilt as if he was preparing himself for his future career in law, but the class had already discovered that he grossly lack artistic fingers.
She like him.
She like the fact he didn’t align himself with anyone