cannot be comprehended except by permission . . .

Santa Rosa
by Kaye

Some days he still thinks about her. Wonders if she’s happy. If she’s safe. Alive. Typed her name in Facebook. Knew she wouldn’t be there. Protected still. Huggy asked him once if he had any regrets. Sitting in a booth after three whiskeys and a close call, just a year away from retirement. Hutch had answered for him. Started singing Malaguena Salerosa, tapping on the table. He denied it, but Huggy knew. “Torch still smokin’ for the mobster’s daughter?”

He chalked it up to confusion and lust and youth. Huggy rolled his eyes and Hutch shut him up by sticking his tongue down his throat. The rest of the night remained a very fuzzy memory in a very good way.

Still, sometimes when he’s driving, or standing in line at the market, he thinks about her. Maybe because he never got to make it right. Because he’d lost himself. Scared himself. But he remembers how it had also been his first glance at a future with someone. She’d cracked open his heart and chased him into that future. Where Hutch now stood, chopping leafy green weeds and calling it supper.

Yeah, some days he still thinks about her.

that we selected as our wedding day the exact day Castiel pulled Dean outta hell?
Is there a symmetry? A certain I don't know what . . . (I refuse to write that in French since now I know what it means it ticks me off)

I am not at home. Hutch is tapping her fingers. Patience is at an end. Will head straight from the road to the doghouse, I fear.
But, in true Starsky style, I will have to bring some fabulous item that will blow the winds of irritation right out the window.

Any suggestions? (At present, I am going to be five days late! - it's gotta be good!)

k