He said the peaches were good. This was the first thing I heard today and it could have been the last. Instantly, I found a lightness of being. Peach season. They were soft to the touch, the samples promising. I purchased three pounds. White. Fuzzy. Welcome.
Every Sunday, I wish I had Sundays off. I dreamt so often of walking to the Melrose Place farmer’s market to roam with ease, black Gelson’s bag in hand…feeling, prodding, charming…to, fro. Today, for what could have been the first Sunday in a year, I was off, free. I roamed, felt, prodded and charmed. Was it as glorious as I had imagined? Yes. Magnificent.
…
Something happens to the air in Los Angeles when the peaches come. Four years of it already ingrained into my mind, rushing forward like an unrelenting force…
Mulholland. Stomping heavy footed and crooked down Melrose, Sunset, Fairfax. Rooftop pools and crowded beaches. Sweat. Eyes like death. The Greek. Corona, Don Julio. Those who stagger…all who try. Chavez and worries of infidelity. Daydrunk. Tan lines. Finding them. Body Shop Sprites at 3 in the AM. Rolling down the top of La Cienega as the sun fades. Summer romance. Failing all. Championing self-destruction. Sweet smell of AC and Hawaiian Tropic deep tanning oil. Knees burning on carpet, pinning hands, tilting, lifting, breathing…scored by Hot Fuss, Abbey Road, Dark Side of the Moon. Wishing on stars. Backyards and bouncycastles. Midnight shows. Optimism. Faith. Immortality. Planning the escape.
