The days I call in sick to my waitress job I’m usually bedridden by my western window. Sprawled and sweating out the sunset, knowing it impossible for me to serve martinis tonight let alone put my pants on. There’s a fragility in us all, and mine will show itself in the latest part of an afternoon when it is most obvious how long a day is and how alone I was within it.
In California I only notice summer because fruit is cheaper and there’s more light to the days. The temperature and humidity make no real changes, which breeds a melancholy that I won’t talk about because here in California we’re all very happy.