Melt halfway around a fire pit and the balmy air hits the back of your neck like a fist.
An old man takes his shoes off at the edge of the sand and looks down for too long before stepping on it. The patrol blares in background like it's his fault. A dog licks dust. The wind blows sideways. The grey sky is frayed with blue.
"Do you like to party?" a voice calls patiently.
I like to say I do but really I just like to ask my barista for oat milk and 9 am and smile a little too much and then go think about if that was the right decision, or if they can give heavy cream, probably not. I learned to love heavy cream in coffee recently, it kind of dribbles out. Only a few drops and a cloud spreads through the coffee and it's good to go. That's not served here, and that's served somewhere else. You'll have to go somewhere else for that. You're good to go.
He looks invincible. The trees look invincible too. The man steps on the sand, and is surprised by its cold, I can tell. The man looks exiled to here. The fire warms my front too much, it's turning red. Thinking about my answer, I lean further in.
"Yes, but only to dance."
