We were fumbling around off Abbot Kinney at dusk, looking for a spot to turn around and laughing about that retired cop who thought everywhere west of Koreatown was Venice.

No, it was north of Culver City, you said.

Venice.

Palms? I guessed, still not knowing my way around but wanting to participate. Mid-Wilshire? Just because I like saying its name.

Nah, that’s definitely Venice, he said.

You just laughed and let him change the subject to the time he rode his Harley through Minnesota in August and it never got above 60 degrees. I thought about saying that this is unusual. That there are days so broiling, so steamy slick with humidity that the wet backs of your thighs seal to car seats and the grass and glasses weep and we all pray for snow. But he was already on to Michigan, whose temperature was slightly more tolerable, and I thought what’s the point. Some men, you just can’t tell anything.