\n\n\u201cI hope it rains soon,\u201d everyone says. The ground is dry and dusty and cracked. Your mouth is dry and dusty and cracked. You\u2019ve forgotten the taste of water. The earth has not. You hope it rains soon.
\n\n\nAt In N Out, you order animal style fries. They growl softly when you\u2019re not looking at them. You suck at your chocolate milkshake and keep your eyes averted.
\nEverything is traffic. Everything is freeways. There is nothing but the cars surrounding yours in a too-close embrace, and your legs in cutoff shorts sweat-sticky on the scorching leather seat, and the venti vanilla soy latte extra shot light ice you ordered at a Starbucks hours and miles ago. You are going to die here. Maybe you already have. The only station you can find is Jack FM.
\nSomeone mentions winter, and you laugh. Everyone knows there\u2019s no such thing as winter. There\u2019s just the sun, and the heat, and the eternal fire on the hills.
\nThe room begins to sway. No one notices. You\u2019re all so used to earthquakes. The floor splits open, and you plummet into the dark. No one notices. You\u2019re all so used to earthquakes.
\n\n\nCelebrity sightings are common. You see Cary Grant buying avocados at Albertsons. You won\u2019t be making guacamole tonight.
\nStrawberries are in season. The roadside stand is empty of people but full of crates. You eat dozens of the juicy, swollen, meaty berries. Your lips and hands are stained red for days. You can\u2019t get them clean.
\nIt\u2019s the happiest place on earth. So why do you dream a faint refrain of \u201cIt\u2019s a Small World\u201d and wake cold and unsettled and achingly lonely?
\n\n\nThe rains come, finally. Cars stop in the streets. People collapse to their knees. There is water falling from the sky. You weep, and weep, and pray that it will end soon. \n\n
\n\n\nYou\u2019re in the ocean, waves lapping at your calves. \u201cThere\u2019s something touching my legs,\u201d \n\na nearby tourist says. \u201cIt\u2019s just seaweed,\u201d you say as you edge back towards the beach. Maybe if you reach the dry sand fast enough, they\u2019ll take the tourist instead.\u00a0
\nAt night, you hear screaming, thin and echoing. Despite the heat, you shut your window. It\u2019s just the Santa Anas, you tell yourself, desperate to sleep. But you lie awake long into the night, listening.
\n
The Armenians are angry at the Turks. They have invented a new holiday dedicated to being angry at the Turks. It is in the middle of a new month they have invented dedicated to being angry at the Turks.
The bus comes once an hour. The bus has not come, so the hour cannot pass. The sun and moon rise and set. The tides turn. The bus does not come. The hour does not pass. Forever, it will be 3 PM on Serj 19th.
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