---

The chimes of Saturn clinked like metal jewels tumbling in an out-of-control spaceship like clothes in a dryer. Alternative lemons hung heavily from a tree wet with morning California dew. He sat on a wooden bench in his garden. The roar of traffic on the wide interstate rose from beyond the grove and the walls. A dome of pollution muddied the blue sky giving it a dull yellow tint. He took a deep breath, and her taste and smell still lingered. He turned to look at the house—dark wood, a mass of glass windows, numerous rooms and levels, secret passageways, greenery, waterfalls, an outdoor kitchen, stone walkways, and a myriad of verandas. It was all his own very creation. He was an architect.

He knew she was still sprawled in the messy sheets, sleeping, dreaming, aching and sticky. He went back inside and made coffee to rouse her. The house was so still and quiet. A cat meowed and twirled around the man’s legs. He fed her. The woman appeared, yawning. She ruffled her hair with her hands.

“Hi, hi, hi there,” she said, like a female version of Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange. He had read parts of the book to her the evening before and then they had rough sex to Beethoven’s 9th.

The man looked at her from across the large island. “If I hadn’t told you already, I’m an architect.”

She laughed. “I think you mentioned it a few times.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Sleep well?”

“I did.”

“Would you like me to make you an English muffin?… And by the way, I’d like to eat your English muffin.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You’re disgusting, and it’s not funny or cute. Hope you realize that.”

“Disgusting? I didn’t seem too disgusting to you last night.”

“Screw you’re English muffin. I’ll just take my money.”

He paid her, and as she walked toward the door he called out. “I’d like to screw you’re English muffin.”

---

Fidel Architect, the architect, drove the California 91 to the 55 and into the city of Orange in northern Orange County. He was a hippy-like alpha male tech bro artist type steering a dark blue BMW through the clogged arteries that is all LA and beyond. Fidel was wearing his favorite ruffled clothes when he walked into the office that day. He was aspiring to be “a professional with surreal-coated dreams.” His shirt was slightly open, his hair neat yet mussed, his cologne sharp and rugged.

When he went past the reception area he gun-pointed with his hand and clicked his tongue at the woman behind the counter. “Pow. Pow. Nice boobs,” he said, and he kept on walking to his own personal office space. The woman’s shocked and enraged face followed him.

Once settled into his office, Fidel Architect stared out the tall windows. The city of Orange was bright that day. Bright and green. A misty paradise smelling like the ocean and smog all mixed together. Someone rapped their knuckles on his door frame. It was Pete, his supervisor. Outside of work he was a bass player in a band. “Hey,” he said. “Did you say something about Shannon’s boobs this morning?”

“Oh, yeah. Shannon Two Cannon,” and Fidel laughed like a prick.

“You can’t do that, man. We could get in a lot of trouble, and it’s degrading. Have some respect.”

Fidel scoffed. “Take a chill pill, man. She likes it.”

“Then why did she come to my office and complain about you?”

“She’s just playing a game. She wants the attention.”

“Dude. Seriously, knock it off before we have to have a sit-down,” Pete told him, and then he walked away.

---

Fidel phoned the reception desk and asked Shannon to come to his office. When she did, she didn’t go in but just stood in the doorway. “What do you want?” she asked.

Fidel jumped up from his desk and went toward her. She took a step back. “Hey, hot stuff. I just wanted to apologize for my crude remark this morning. Pete got on my ass about it… And speaking of ass, I’d like to get on yours.” He raised his glasses and took a good look at her.

Shannon burned like wayward electricity. “You cannot talk to me that way! You’re a pig.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Fidel said, holding up a hand. “You cannot talk to me that way. I’m the architect, you’re the receptionist. I win, get it?”

Shannon began to shake and a tear or two rolled down her face. She was so mad. “I’m going to HR.”

“Wait,” Fidel called out. “I wanted to know if you’d like to go to lunch with me… Mmm, I wish you were on the menu.”

Shannon marched off, yelling “Pig! Pig! Pig! Pigs who fly are pigs who die!” all the way toward the human resources department.

Fidel the architect waved a hand in the air to dismiss her actions. “HR? They won’t do anything about it… And I’m not a pig, but mmm, I’d like to oink all over her.”

---

Fidel Architect the architect found himself alone for lunch at Del Taco. He loved the burritos there. He sat at a high-top next to a window as he ate. The place was busy. A woman with a disorderly child sat at the table next to him. The kid was whining and complaining about something. Something stupid, Fidel thought.

The little girl kept at it and kept at it. Fidel finally had had enough. “Hi. Excuse me,” he said to the flustered woman just trying to get by in life as a single mother.

“What,” she snapped at him.

“Could you give your kid a tranquilizer or something. I’m trying to eat and she’s disturbing me.”

“Fuck off, man,” she said.

A few more moments went by, and she continued to ignore him. He knocked on his tabletop. “Listen lady,” Fidel began. “If you don’t shut that kid up, I’m going to throw her out a window.”

The woman gave him the most disgusted face in the world. She snatched her daughter up and went to the front counter of the restaurant. She asked to speak to the manager.

Moments later, a man came to Fidel’s table. He looked like an official Del Taco manager. “Excuse me, sir. Did you threaten that woman’s child?” He gestured with his thumb, pointing at the woman and the girl behind him.

“Absolutely not,” Fidel protested. “I just asked her if she needed any help, and she got all pissed off. Between you and me,” Fidel said, and he swirled his finger close to his head as in relating to craziness. “I think she has mental problems.”

The manager sighed with his shoulders. “Look, could you just please leave before I have to call the police.” The manger leaned in and whispered. “I think you’re right. She’s a cuckoo bird.”

Fidel peered around him to look at the woman again. “But she’s pretty hot in a down-on-her-luck sort of way. I’d take a go at her, real hard,” and he thrust his hips aggressively, enough to make his chair move and squeak against the floor. “I’ll go apologize.”

He walked up to the woman who was just standing there in the lobby holding her child. Her eyes grew wide when she saw him approach. Fidel could sense her fear. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “I just wanted to come over and apologize for what I said earlier. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Let me pay for your meal.”

“I already paid for it.”

“Then, let me help you out monetarily.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll give you some money.”

“I don’t need your dirty money.”

“Okay… How would you like to get dirty in other ways?”

“What do you mean by that!”

“You know… A little rub rub here, a little rub rub there, back at my place. I’m a very successful architect and my home is very very nice. You could stay awhile if you want.”

She scrunched her face at him, but in her head she considered it. Fidel Architect was a decent-looking man. She looked at her daughter whose eyes were now fixed on Fidel’s face. “What about her?”

“My house is huge,” he elbowed her, and then whispered, “Like other things I have… She can run around and explore, play outside, watch television. I have four. I’ve got crackers or whatever you feed her. I’ll even make you a nice dinner. Not only am I the best architect in Orange County, I’m also an accomplished chef.”

She looked at him and smiled. She was melting a bit. “Then why are you eating at Del Taco?”

Fidel threw his arms up in the air. “Because I love their burritos!”

“Me too,” she said.

Her little girl was beginning to wonder what was going on. “Mommy. Can we go?”

“So, come on. My car is right outside, or you can just follow me,” Fidel said. “I’ll take the rest of the day off.”

“You’re not going to kill us are you?” the woman wanted to know.

Fidel laughed out loud. Then with all seriousness said, “Only with kindness.”