We went to bed last night early, heads on pillows and the television on Comedy Central before 9:30pm, lightheaded and walking two steps north with each step east we take. We were hoping it would rain, but it did nothing more then sprinkle a bit, even as we stood out on our balcony after a dinner at The Salt Cellar was postponed a few nights in exchange for a night in, watching Japanese horror films and commenting on what is lost in translation when the English subtitles just won’t do. We wanted sushi, but drove past Sushi Avenue at Higley & Guadelupe, having been previously disgusted at their weak attempt at tuna shashimi and serving me a to-go box of salmon roe when it was in fact sea urchin that I had ordered.

We drove to Val Vista & Baseline instead, knowing it has the best sushi closest to our house, and we picked up rainbow rolls, tuna shashimi, unagi, and salmon wrapped atop a spicy tuna roll, and we also chipped in for a Japanese vodka, made from rice, that taste of saki. Back home and the Smirnoff is set aside, our homosexual drinking tendencies having graduated to the more expensive vodka and Patrone tequila.

The next morning I step out at 6am and am continually fascinated by the Arizona sky. Every sight line is a different hue, and the rain is out over Ahwatukee and the clouds seem to settle on the Supersitions. Beems of light, the sun peeking through, are still visible from the east but the clouds continue to roll in from the west.

Two hours later I walk along 32nd Street with Sirena, and we discuss the latest events at Transylvania and Club Hell in Phoenix, and she tells me of her latest experiences go-go dancing for the Phoenix goths. She tells me more stories about parking in a lot and walking past Amsterdam’s in her go-go outfit and all the gay bois out on the street telling her how gorgeous she looks.

We stop and each take a deep breath of the Phoenix air, and it no longer taste of jet fuel from Sky Harbor, but rather the warm, salty essence of a storm rolled in from the west coast. She says “Fisherman’s Wharf” at the same time that I say “SOMA” (South of Market), and we both agree the air taste of San Francisco.

And I enjoy the Phoenix storm, the lightning in the morning and the salty air, and we walk back into our building and continue our work, waiting for the next opprotunity to ditch the indoors and go skipping in puddles of water, down the street as the trucks roar pass and the airplanes come overhead.