by Zoe Contros Kearl Viviana Rishe The palms leaned heavy in the drought of endless summer. We ate an expensive seafood lunch at a restaurant J Lo frequents. Late afternoon, we walked Santa Monica. Dipped feet and ankles into jagged cold Pacific surf. Back home, Rafe rolled cigarettes next to the pool while the Irish Setter puppy, still new to all this, chewed at the plants growing alongside the wall. Spitting gnawed pulp. You, on an adirondack chair playing solitaire, me in