Los Angeles on a Friday morning is quieter than you'd expect, still and soft in the sunlight, pleasant. It's always pleasant. You get to the airport early and maneouver the hiccups until you end up with a direct flight next to each other and an upgrade. There's even time to sneak out of the airport for a last In-n-out meal and everything makes you laugh, it's a dream.
The forecast on the other coast calls for an ice age apocalypse; it's never been so cold. Your travel companions rebook their travels to stay perpetually in SoCal sunshine and you don't blame them. A week of summer underneath your fingernails, a week of sunshine on your shoulders, it sinks into your spine and you do not take any of it for granted, don't ever look back and think I did. You can still feel the pull of the ocean, of that last perfect wave in your muscles, of the way it feels to step into the sea when there is nothing else ahead of you but cool, salty freedom.
The forecast for the other coast calls for an ice age.
But you bring a fire that doesn't go out.
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