Pebbles chewed on her good side and watched the mute parade while Wilson watched her. Some of the paper pilgrims taped to the wall started to slide and Richard Simmons took viewers behind the scenes of the Rose Bowl Parade. He showed how the floats were constructed and how many roses it took to cover a single float. Pebbles felt the man staring at her. Richard Simmmons had on a silky looking workout suit. She wondered why Richard had droopy shoulders. Maybe it was because those fat ladies were always crying on them.

Wilson saw a grin curl up the corner of Pebbles' lip. The volunteers were bringing around pumpkin pie on paper plates. He remembered the sweet potato pie he made for the guys in Nam that time. He'd made the crusts from Bisquick and they puffed up like biscuits under the sweet potato filling, unexpectedly like landmines.

Pebbles looked at the guy across the table. She wondered how old he was. Pretty old she guessed. Twice as old as she was. His shoulders were strong. Probably no woman ever cried on his shoulders. She lit a cigarette and offered it to him. He took a drag.

"There's no smoking in here," Pebbles told him.

"Nope, there ain't."

She lit one for herself and pushed her tray away. By that time the nun had arrived.

"There's no smoking in here folks," she said.

They ignored her.

"If you want to smoke, you have to go outside." The head nun might have folded her arms across her chest. "Those are the rules folks."

Wilson stood up and Pebbles was surprised how tall he was. She stood up too and yanked her sweater down over her broken zipper. They filled their coffee cups and Pebbles scooped a handful of candy corn from a dish on the coffee counter. She filled her pocket and followed Wilson into the November street.

It was snowing the kind of snow that looked like fluttery ashes from a campfire. Wilson zipped up his jacket and started walking south on Fourth Avenue.

"Where you going?" she called after him.

"Get my cart," he said.

"Can I come?"

He shrugged. She followed a few steps behind, watching his long stride and the swing of his hips. "Cute butt." On Union he turned east.

"Hey," Pebbles said falling in step beside him. "Wanna get a pint?"

"I don't drink."

"Wanna get a bag?"

"I don't do none of that shit."

He stopped at the empty lot that was a community garden. A sign on the fence said, "They Shall Beat Their Swords into Plowshares." Wilson fished a key out of his pocket and opened the padlock.

"How come you got a key?" she asked.

Wilson turned to look at her. His eyes were old eyes she thought, the color of a Milky Way set deep in his face that was the color of a Snickers bar.

"Keep my cans in here, got a deal worked out." He passed through the fence and started to close the gate.