"
We ate together in small dark cafés lit by strings of electric chiles, facing out to the poor street; ribby dogs dodging handmade explosive motor scooters. Great smell of frying tortillas.
We strolled together down the white long beach past turtle eggs that hadn’t hatched, pink plastic doll arms faded in the blazing sun, barnacled spike high heels washed in from Cuba or some distant pleasure ship.
We swam together in the green sea, rain beating us in the face, arms wide open to the tall black column cloud, her broad Midwestern smile.
Where are we now?
"- Day out of Days, Sam Shepard
