He will hold the flame of the lighter just below the fronds of his moustache. Sit back on the tweed couch and let him pass to you when he is finished. Go easy on your first turn. Remember that you are in California, after all, and this man is an ex-hippie, a computer programmer who moonlights as a musician. He probably knows someone who grows kind-bud in his backyard.

*

     Watch the bowl go round to her father's wife, and to her father's ex-wife, who lives in the guest bedroom, and then to her. Notice that she has forged at least three feet of space between you on the couch. Voices fade in and out. Don't bother to join the conversation. No one really knows who you are or what you're doing there. The two of you made this decision to drive cross-country together on a lark; when she gets home, she will move back in with her boyfriend until she decides what she is doing with her life.

*

     Don't be such a dolt. Say something. Say anything.

*

     Don't start laughing. You won't be able to stop. Don't start pondering the absurdity of this situation, that she barely knows her own father and she barely knows you and yet here you both are, sharing the peace pipe, flanked by the ghosts of his love life past and present. This will only make you lose it.

*

     Now that you're laughing, don't touch the glass of water. If you drink, you will only choke and wind up snorting it through your nose, like the uptight dork you used to be in elementary school.

*

     Don't ask how it works, the wife and the ex-wife living under the same roof. You're not even sure if you're supposed to know, just as they aren't supposed to know that you and his daughter are having sex, which is why on the first night, when he asked about sleeping arrangements and said he'd made up the guest room for two and you nodded and he left you alone, she nearly lost her mind. "Couldn't you at least have offered to sleep on the couch?'' she said.
     Don't ask why she says this, even though you have no idea why she would say this. Even though you thought this trip was a beginning, not an ending.

*

     Try not to notice when she disappears. Try not to think about the fact that she's on the phone with her boyfriend while you're here in the living room with the wife and the ex-wife and the father, passing a bag of Ruffles BBQ, attempting to participate in a stern discussion about politics post-Sept. 11 while passing a bright pink ceramic pipe. Try not to imagine that she's reconciling with her boyfriend while you sit here attempting to forge a relationship with the man who conceived her and then left her when she turned three. Note that they have the same prominent upper lip, except he's got that silly Dennis Eckersley moustache above his. Be thankful that she does not.

*

     Giggle uncontrollably at the thought of her wearing Dennis Eckersley's moustache, at her strutting out of the bullpen and allowing a home run to Kirk Gibson in the bottom of the ninth. She is not a big-game pitcher.
     They are talking about bin Laden and anthrax and trying not to stare at you while you lose your goddamn mind. Go to the bathroom, wipe your nose, check your eyes, do a couple of squat thrusts, remind yourself of the gravity of the situation. Do not fuck up again.

*

     Giggle intermittently for three hours. Say nothing intelligible.

*

     Wake up with her mouth on your penis. Do not expect it to be pleasant. This is not that sort of thing, not like it was in the car, somewhere near Tahoe, when she unzipped you and finished you off while truck drivers ogled from their balcony seats. She will bite and she will hiss at you to bite her back. Pull her up, squeeze her tits, chew her nipples, let her back down again, feel her teeth scratching the sides of your cock. Wrestle with her as she moves up, as she forces you inside of her. Watch her writhing on top of you, emitting pained little gasps, eyes closed, head thrown back. Think about hand-to-hand combat. Think about basic training. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you don't know what war is like.

*

     She will say, before turning over in bed, "I don't think we should do that again for a while."

*

     Listen to her rustling outside the bedroom the next morning. She will tell someone, "Brendan told me we just bombed Afghanistan.'' Brendan is the boyfriend. He went to college on the G.I. Bill. She will speak as if Brendan knows something the rest of the world doesn't. The television will drone on in the background. Postpone consciousness as long as possible.

*

     Understand that this is another day fraught with historical significance. You will remember exactly where you were when you heard the news.  n°