Dexter Gordon’s cover of “Don’t Explain” quietly interpolated the morning, emanating from a pair of battered speakers screwed to opposite ends of the header above the seven-foot slider, and under the short eave that provided a little protection from the elements. A hummingbird took turns with a fat bumblebee as they both investigated the refulgent trumpets of a datura that towered over the back corner of the little yard. A neighboring ornamental plum, heralding spring only a week ago, now lofted its mauve blossoms above the graying board fence that ran along the north side of the lot. The weathered table before her was covered by a fading cloth depicting a woman wearing sunglasses, a Jackie O coiffure, and a cocktail dress, surmounting the motto, queen of fucking everything. On it lay the New York Times, the Chronicle, a copy of The Furies by Janet Hobhouse, a pot of Scottish breakfast tea, a teaspoon, and a very delicate-looking ceramic cup and saucer decorated with pinkly-tinged cerise tea roses.
