“I’ve got some chips and guacamole,” Beautiful Hair said when she picked me up.
“I’ve got a stash of emergency chocolate,” I said, pulling out the bars that a friend had given me last week at a poetry reading.
We drove through the winter afternoon to Town by the Lake, passed houses with long icicles that were dripping in the sun, and came at last to a little old house at the end of a narrow road. We came in through the kitchen, shaking off our wet boots. Gorgeous Eyes was at the stove, making some kind of dish that involved tomatoes, onions, chickpeas, and a whole lot of spices. She put down the spatula to give us hugs and shift the tea kettle onto a burner.
I rummaged through her cupboard to find ginger tea and settled lazily down at the kitchen table, much like I do at my mother’s house. Georgeous Eyes was baking cakes, too, and setting them out on the big table in her dining room to cool. In the next room, logs glowed red in the fireplace, occasionally spitting up little flames.
Beautiful Hair took the chair next to me. We talked and ate and drank hot tea, while outside, the afternoon turned to dusk. A yellow Tibetan prayer flag in the backyard flapped above the melting snow. When we were filled with food, we moved to the comfortable furniture in front of the fire, where we kept talking until the window panes were dark enough to become mirrors.