Casmalia, California never recovered from the 1863 drought, just as some people never recover from the absence of good manners.
He was a pale man with wiry hair and awkwardly sharp features. His Harvey’s Lake Tahoe satin jacket was draped over the back of his chair.
His phone leaned up against the small basket of rolls on the table.
None of the guests having breakfast on the patio at the Hotel Bel-Air could possibly have escaped its assault. Clipped voices, arrogant and edgy, weighing in on second quarter earnings pierced through the phone’s speaker.
The woman at the adjacent table leaned toward the pale man. She wore a white dress. Her black hair was tied back with a magenta ribbon.
In a tone much kinder than necessary, the woman asked if he would be kind enough to turn down the volume or use earbuds.
The man’s harsh features sharpened. He kept his eyes on the screen and told her no.
A second woman, seated with two other people at the table behind him, walked over and tapped the pale man on his shoulder. He jerked and turned to look up.
She had on a UCLA cap and large sunglasses. She smiled at him and paused briefly to be certain he saw her aiming her phone at his phone.
When she tapped it, his screen immediately turned as black as the nighttime sky in Casmalia, California.
Clipped voices dissecting second quarter earnings no longer pierced through the phone’s speaker.
