North I walk. I got too far away, though; to a dead zone.
At Toucans Tiki Lounge, older men smile over their martinis. A drunk weaves into the street, stops, walks on, and then sinks against a wall.
I pass Dink’s — a bluish lounge with blurry figures hunched under low lights. A big bouncer, all in white, spits on the sidewalk.
I watch a couple eat dinner inside a mid-century fixer-upper. They are seated close but don’t talk.
My anxiety poisons the desert night air. Need a place to curl up; to sleep a little, but with no snakes; no scorpions; no drunk prowlers.
I cut through a hedge of oleanders behind an apartment building, scrape a patch of desert floor clean and fall asleep.