She wore open-toed sandals. She watched him drinking his beer, smooth and dark, sloshing in the bottle.

He made parmesan asiago cream sauce for the ravioli. Outside, a car alarm went off. He poured more wine. Two favorite wines from Trader Joe's, the goat and the horse. Both under five dollars. A thirty-year-old white male was shot in the back in Echo Park. He was a rastafarian. I don't think I spelled that right. The three guys that did it, the police said they were Hispanic. A gang initiation? A disagreement? Someone banged on the door next door. Someone else got mowed down by a car. A biker, just riding along. This was earlier this week. Today, the sun's gone. Clouds hang heavy in the sky, though there's no word on rain. The weathermen in LA, they always get it wrong. Sometimes I think they're just pretending, 'eenie-meenie-miney-mo.' It's going to be sunny today, folks! It's going to be cloudy! Maybe a chance of rain. Me? I'm on the couch, tea by my side.

He took the aloe parts and threw them in soil, tenderly packing them in. Good night, sleep tight. Hopefully, they'll root. Someone, the other day, told me hopefully wasn't even a word.