Fires dot the hillsides. We watch the land sliding. Roads veer off into midair.

Ventura is the first to go. We wonder if the rest will follow.

She's a certain shade of blue, too dark to be sky. More ocean than lake, her eyes evade mine. Propped up with bright corduroy pillows, her pale fingers favor a bowl of sunflower seeds. She studies a lizard sunning on the steps. "It's waiting for something to happen, before it dies." She finally turns to look at me, green eyes opaque and shimmering, "Like us."

"Lizards are a singular constant," I say. "Predictable as war. That's not like us."

"You're missing my point, lover."

"Survivors of disparity?" I say, wheeling her to the table. Tilapia and yellow peppers, margarita's in blue goblets.

"They can hear all over the world," she says between bites. "Did you know that?"

"Lizards? No, I've never thought about it."

I know her hair, like ash weed blowing in the wind of a decanted sherry. At our door, the music of the sea speaks her name softly. It curls like fog back into the dark of her.

Like lizards, we shed our tails and slip away into tomorrow.