- What's for lunch? – Nasha wants to know. She’s taking a shower. They’ve been writing the entire morning and the fake sense of accomplishment makes them even hungrier.

- What’s for lunch? - Oblak would like to know that too, but the refrigerator offers no clues - Take your pick; it’s either a fury grapefruit or gray baby blue carrots.

- You mean a peach, grapefruits don’t have fur.

- No, I mean a grapefruit, and ours does, it has a light green afro – he closes the fridge continuing his search through kitchen cabinets. They need to get a job, that’s what they need.

- You know what we need? – she yells like a steel-mill worker, maybe the best thing to do would be to join her under the shower, at least the hot water is free – We need to get us a job!

- Yes, sure, that’s a great idea – he mumbles knowing she can’t hear him, considering what kind of an exotic meal can be concocted from a can of pinto beans and half a bag of Pecan & Maple Breakfast Clusters – And what would you like to do?

- We could be CPOs of some big corporation, make lots of money and retire in a week! – she runs in the

 

kitchen dripping wet, wrapped in a towel.

- You mean CEOs? – he decides not to mix the beans with the cereal, one will be the main course, the other – a desert. 

- CEO, CPO, C3PO, we’ll take any job they’ll give us, as long as it pays absurd amounts of money for a couple of timely and clever decisions. We can be as volatile as any market…

So after they eat, with stomachs full and hearts even heavier they go out in search of an alternative and even more profitable career. The world is their oyster. Smells like fish. Has no shelf life at all. Only a shell life. Two halves of mother-of-pearl armor held together by a tight muscle. The objective of this exercise – not to let the air in. Otherwise everything will go bad. The kind of bad after which it’ll never go back to being good again.

Needless to say, there are simply no “CEO wanted” ads in the back of the LA Weekly. This makes them worry about their future. Seems there’s nothing to look forward to, nothing to look up to but the sky.

And the sky is caramelized stiff in a dark brown, less sweet, glass-like existence, to which planes and helicopters stick like flies.

 

The sea is a pot of...