The woman continued to speak."When I was young girl," she said. "I lived in a small town on the central coast of California. The elementary school was in the next town over and I would spend a half hour on an old yellow school bus as it worked its way up the highway through the morning fog. There weren't many other children where I lived so I learned to be my own playmate. I would hike through the wind-swept dunes on the beach. Crouching in the tall, thin grass that grew up through the sand, I imagined myself to be some spirit of the desert, ethereal and eternal.
"High on the hill was our home, where my father was almost always to be found hard at work in his study. He was a marine biologist. He taught a few courses at the local college but due to a stipend from an oceanographic foundation, he was able to pursue his one true love, learning all that could be known about the migration of the gray whales.
"During most of the year, my father kept his face buried in scientific journals and tomes, jotting down facts on index cards he put in shoe boxes stacked neatly against the wall of the study. When I came to visit, he would chuck me under the chin, say that I was a good little girl, and tell me to run along and play. He was so engrossed in his work, he might have starved to death if not for my mother, who would dutifully bring Father his meals and try not to disturb him.
"As Christmas approached, it was up to Mother to buy the presents and pick out the tree. Father was far too busy to help because December also brought the whales, migrating south to Baja to spawn. It was my father's favorite time of the year. He spent many happy hours chartering boats and making sure his camera and audio equipment were working. When the whales did come, he would be out the door before sunrise an not return until after dark, with a smirk on his face and smelling like the ocean.
"One December day, he never came back. A huge wave swept him overboard as he leaned over the side of the boat trying to record whale songs. His body was never found.
"Mother took the news very hard. My father's photographs and recordings of the gray whales were thrown in the trash. His books, journals, shoe boxes with the index cards were burned. It was as if the whales themselves had taken her husband away.
"Soon thereafter, we moved to the middle of Ohio. Mother died there, neither remarrying nor seeing another ocean. I swore to myself that I would never end up like her."
"Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time. I don't care," the man said and put his cigarette out on her tit.
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