'Twas the night after Christmas . . . Winter chill bites. Rather painful, one could say. She doesn't like how days are suspended in dusk.
"It's the magical hours," I say.
"Just cold . . . and light-less," she whispers.
It is dark by four and we walk through the corridors of Cabazon, in and out of endless shops . . . so inviting. Everything is a bargain, the signs say so. O, fingers hurt to the bone.
"Secret service," she mutters. "It's cold, don't they know?"
No one gets in unless permission is granted by the man in a suit. It's pointless really . . . like Disneyland in the heat of Summer. No! Winter is here in the Desert and each breath is caught upon the night's mist.
Plain to see that Christmas has lost its meaning. No surprise! We must shop, shop, bargain, and claw at the one last sweater left on the shelf. After all, a sweater is something we've always wanted. It's the night after Christmas. The lines to the girl who would take your money winds to the back and out of the store. What are we here for? It's cold in the desert.