Summer of Storms
October 10, 2017 - 153 words
My windshield still has a layer of desert dust, a memory of where I’ve been and sensations I remember. I’m hesitant to clean it so the caked-on texture adds a bleary filter to the windshield, turning the brake lights that form the lifeblood of the coastal highway into a kaleidoscope. The sun is a sinking ball of blood. I know this city but I’m here for the first time. Los Angeles in a mirror. A sign on my right says “Please don’t drink and drive.” My car glides above the pavement and responds like a spacecraft leaving dock on its maiden voyage into the cosmos. I glimpse a dusty orange moon emerging from the smudged clouds beyond the sea. Eyes back on the road, driving with the care I’d take during a Midwest storm. I’m driving through a storm but there’s no rain. I would like to feel a summer storm again.