In the middle of 279 hours of hard rain, there’s a sinkhole in Santa Monica; a long throw of concrete and tar that arches its back and buckles, its teeth spitting up rocks and broken pipes and other bones of the suburbs that don’t go anywhere. You and your daughter sit in a cafe while outside the workers with their cranes and lights try to stick the great tongues of road back into the earth. When the waitress pours your tea, the strap of her bra slides to the left; behind it is a tan-line that makes you ask questions and answer them yourself. Your daughter draws a picture of a palm tree and under it a rabbit and a puppy. Above them she puts a sun with muscular spikes of heat that hover in menacing bolts so close to the ground it would burn both of them in seconds. But instead of telling her this, you ask why the rabbit is blue. It’s too late in the day for surprises; it’s not going to stop raining and the waitress is not going to touch your shoulder and whisper maybe behind the soft hiss of hot water. You are on your own and you will have to make decisions about the world as if you know what you are doing. Your daughter can’t ever see you wither with doubt; can’t ever see you looking out at the ocean and wondering about the names of things. In the street the sinkhole keeps stacking layers to the sky; the workmen’s failed geometry keeps it open in a tarry gash that will not close. Outside the cafe, a girl in a blue raincoat twirls an umbrella. On the radio is a song about wolves from 1983. Using a red crayon your daughter covers her drawing in great slashes of flames, explains it’s raining fire, explains that everything is going to melt and there’s nothing anyone can do. She is getting the idea.
