Its rays are bright and strong. They hug me tight and offer me refuge. It’s drops of light tickle my skin and warm my heart. I close my eyes and breathe in its sticky hot air. I can’t get enough. It’s never enough. The Los Angeles sunshine is my drug. It pulls me in and never lets go, its hold is relentless and deep. The city goes against my inner East Coast snobbery. I hate the flakes, the fake boobs, the Hollywood mumbo-jumbo, but that damn sunshine yanks me back like a manipulative ex-lover.
“You don’t hate it here.” It tells me.
“You’re right.” I whisper as I flip on my sunglasses and breath in its hot yellow goodness.
“It’s January,” the sun reminds me.
I think back to galoshes and snow. To the rain and sleet, to buses splashing stinky thick dirty mush onto my brand new shoes. To bundled up mummified peeps who trudge through and rush inside to get relief.
The sun is right. It’s always right. I hate its smug indignation that all it has to do is show up.
I get relief on rainy days. My clarity and judgment returns. Los Angeles loses its shiny happy luster and becomes an ordinary, lonely, car -infested abyss.
“I’m moving to New York .” I declare.
I picture the bustling city on a sunny day, the culture, the art, the gritty texture.
But the Los Angeles sunshine doesn’t stay away for too long. It sneaks back in and taps me on the shoulder.
“I’m here, remember me?”
I close my eyes and its rays brush my cheek gently. I blush.
“Yea, I remember.” I smile and drink it in.
I gaze at the infinite rows of palm trees and the distant crystal blue sea.
“You love it here.” The sun reminds me. “You love me.”
I squish my eyes tight and try to fight its balmy grasp, its addictive vitamin D, and its false sense of friendship. But its enormous attentive presence seduces me yet again.