And this is how I'd begin the book I'll never write:

“But seahorses have no hooves, Andie” had been John’s words as he’d helped himself to the odd-colored Heinz dressing just over the salad bar during brunch earlier that day and she couldn’t help but think it looked just like bottled licorice in liquid form. Maybe it was the benefit of hindsight finally shedding some light on their relationship but the irony of what it had to do with condiment, if any at all, was completely lost on her. Still, that he had completely missed the point with her metaphor— of that Andressa was sure of— that the view of the sea from the spacious terrace outside did reverb into the master suite like horses galloping in the distance.

Maybe the change from Philadelphia to L.A. had been too much abrupt, the move itself done in more haste than either of them was willing to admit or at least be willing to be held accountable for, but the Network did indeed order John to be closer to the Studio for this season of the show: He had been promoted to head-writer after all and larger responsibilities seemed to hang from above his head nowadays just like the sword of Damocles— One well-placed gag into last season ender’s script, something to do with the lead character going to Haiti and joining the Tonton Macoute despite being obviously the white, blond, cornfed all-American type (something like that— Andessa had never watched the show) and now here they were with their bedroom terrace overlooking the Pacific and a kinder, gentler stampede of figments softly stealing away the silence at night.