Escape to Dolce Vita

Marin, California. I walk down the winding street, past large houses with green lawns and an empty tennis court. The ocean rests below like an extension of the sky, pale blue and foggy. I’m wearing my high heels, last night’s dress and vest. I wish I had sunglasses. I take my heels off, carry them.

An hour of walking—southeast, I think—and I’m at the town center: a few quaint restaurants, a small grocery store. A sun-bleached Victorian—Mason R. Madison, Attorney at Law—with a yellow rose bush. An art gallery.

I start to cry.

I call Justin.

“Hi?” He’s somewhere loud. I want to ask where.

I step over bird poop—the bottom of my feet are now black—and onto a restaurant’s lawn. A man walking tiny poodle asks me where Dolce Vita is—how he can get to Dolce Vita Wine Bar. I ignore him. “I bought you roses,” I lie.

Justin doesn’t care about flowers; I do. He’d rather have a sandwich or a free movie ticket. “Yellow roses, they smell like summer,” I say.

I slip my feet into my high heels.