Sleight

West Hollywood in March lies quiet at the edge of the hills. Calm oases of palm trees and rose bushes at every corner, slight inclines and roaring intersections. I ran blind through the neighborhood and landed sweating at the gate sooner than expected but my veins still pumping like mad. You wonder what it is you are trying to catch. 

I stepped onto the beach, later, and even the cool ocean breeze couldn't keep me from smiling into the afternoon. The water was cool, but smelled of salt, and it pulled at me just the way it does in my dreams: I dove in and let it promise me the world. There's still sand on my skin though I showered after we came home. I believe it may just be metaphorical.