The van has been parked in the same spot for two hours and you have no intention of moving it.
It's early. The sun is still low and the light comes through the raised roof at an angle that turns everything into something close to a film. Outside, the pines barely move. You throw open the back door and the smell of resin and damp earth comes in before you can do anything to stop it. You sit on the edge, legs dangling, coffee in your hands.
The laptop is on somewhere behind you. You don't look at it.
You hear footsteps on the gravel. Aroa comes around the side of the van with a half-eaten apple and her hair still undone, still wearing your fleece.
—How long have we been here?
—I don't know. —You take a sip.— Maybe forever.
She laughs, and the sound goes into the trees and stays there. She sits next to you, feet in the air too, the apple resting on her knee.
Through the pines, in the distance, you can make out the blue of the sea. Still. Very still.
You think, without thinking too hard, that not long ago this was just an idea on paper. That now it's Wednesday and it smells like resin and you have coffee and nowhere to be before noon.
Aroa rests her head on your shoulder.
The pines keep moving, barely.
The life you wanted already smells like resin.