The beds in the hotel in Portland had down comforters. Stray white feathers floated around the room like the first snowflakes of a coming storm. We lied on our beds and read books we'd just bought at Powell's. All day he let me get my way, saying, "It's your birthday." We walked along the riverfront in the evening, the sky turning pink, the air cooling as the light waned. A breeze blew off the water as we watched a train go over one of the creaking steel bridges. Homeless people played dice on squares of cardboard and guys on BMX bikes did tricks down some concrete stairs.
Portland seems oddly bigger than Seattle. Perhaps because it is more spread out, its topography flatter. We stopped at a martini bar before dinner, and I got a bit dizzy from my gimlet. The restaurant where we ate dinner had a high tin ceiling and a long yellow booth against the back wall. We got pommes frites and laughed with our eyes at the couple sitting next to us. There is something gratifying about walking through a city at night. It is more intimate, there is a kind of freedom in the dark.
It's the middle of the night; neither one of us is asleep. He whispers hello to me across the darkness. I ask him what time it is and when he picks up the clock radio to look, loud country music blares out and it takes him awhile to figure out how to turn it off. I giggle helplessly into my feather pillow. It's three AM and not my birthday anymore.
