blame san andreas

There seems to be something about a trans-Bay bridge that brings out my sadistic side. On Saturday we were heading west on 92 over the San Mateo, Hedwig zooming past the wetlands, the peninsula lost in the blue haze.

“So there was a show-jumping competition,” I begin.

“Oh yes,” says Jeremy skeptically.

“Yes. It was in an arena with a hay-loft at one end. Okay? And this guy rode around the course, and he knocked down one fence, so that’s four faults, and he got one time fault as well. And since the finish line was towards the hay-loft – are you with me?”

“Oh yes,” says Jeremy patiently.

“He decided to call that his Hay-ward Fault.”

“It’s amazing how I can tell it’s going to be a bad pun as soon as you start telling it. You get this particular voice.”

“I have no such voice. Unless you call it before the punch line, your observations are flimsy and unsupported.”

“Okay then,” says Jeremy.

The water is silver and green, the endless sky a pastel blue. The pelicans on the lamp-posts look down their beaks at us.

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