Pax hominibus bonae voluntatis

Goldfinches in the birdbath preen and splash, they dart into the low palms. I am not at home. In the supermarket, Mr. Marquez asks me: 'Do you know who my brother is? Do you know who I am?'

It has been a mild winter, even in faraway places, even in Paris. This time last year, we all froze and the snow piled on the streets well before Christmas. In California, seventy seven degrees and sunny, I tread the beach barefoot with a glass full of ice in my hands.

Most days I work at the cafe and only think about what I am doing. I wash the windows, I watch the windows. There are only about thriteen customers a day across the street at Golden Gate Donuts. 'I have a friend who reminds me of you, you have the same manner. I'm not trying to say anything about your state of being, but she went completely crazy.' I ask him where she is now. 'She lives in a sanitarium,' he says. I wonder if he ever thinks about what it must be like there for her. I do not ask him if he visits. 'Your behavior is so alike,' he says shaking his head and measuring coffee beans.

I wander over to the grinder and clean off all the coffee grounds and some small spills around the counter. The coffee cups are lined neatly in white porcelain rows. Late afternoon sunlight glances off of them. A young man enters and orders politely. 'A three cheese sandwich for here,' I say in a loud voice over my shoulder. I take the polite man's name and give him his change. He sits down and I do the dishes, then go outside and clean the fingerprints off of the glass doors.

When I come back in, Mr. Marquez has forgotten the half-made sandwich and is removing the blade from the slicer to clean. I remind him. Later, when his brother comes in and before we close for the evening, they hand me a beer and we drink them smiling and staring out the graying windows at the still bright space where the sun went down.