capping off the house hunt

It is Sunday and Frank will be our new landlord. He told us we can iron our Levi’s on the ironing board attached to the wall in the kitchen when we go out on fancier dates. The hot tub, like a boundless warm well, is for us to soak in, too. Just as long as five naked girls aren’t found getting wrinkly in the mid-night hours. He is older, forgetful, but remembers his states at our age; oblivious to bank burnings while wandering, too drunk, down Sabado Tarde, unregulated, feeling free. It was back in the ‘70s but he remembers the feeling of being so obliterated and forgetting whole moments, whole affairs. Avocado and orange fruit—what’s its name, again—parenthesis the property while the caged lions down trapped at the zoo roar like roosters in the morning. Marking time, swiftly sifting away in each roll of the bike tire and link traveled. Frank tossed us the keys without questioning trust or referencing credit banks to ensure our capital value. He liked Danni and Rachel’s emphases in ecology and zoology and he told us about the time his wife and him scuba dived off those shores—right out there on that coastline—where she took an abalone and stuck it right to her chest. We smiled surely, looking at the walls, sensing the glove fit. On Fourth of July there would be no need to fight crowds or darned traffic because we’ll see the fireworks straight from our deck with gem view. Sometimes the past tenants would ask him down there for a gin and tonic. It’d be a neighborly joy, we envisaged. Santa Inez St. One Hundred and Seven is where we’d love to be. You can move in tomorrow.