Indian Summers

It’s hot. 

Condensation slides down the outside of my spicy, skinny margarita, each drop pulling the tajín rim further from where it belongs. I run my thumb along the glass, catching the salty, spicy powder and bringing it to my lips.

El Coyote is one of those classic LA haunts – not remarkable for its food or ambiance but because it was the last place Sharon Tate dined before she was brutally murdered by the Manson family. For me, though, it holds a different significance. It’s where I sat with my parents the one and only time they visited me in Los Angeles, a table steeped in memories of distance, resentment and reunion. It’s where Tony and I clinked margarita glasses after my second COVID vaccination, only for me to discover – after my fourth drink – that alcohol was off-limits for 24 hours post-shot. And it’s where I realized my friendship with Chris had shifted, like an inevitable landslide or earthquake, into something I couldn't stop even if I tried.

I sit alone on the patio, a deep dread looming over me. I finish my margarita and wait. Wait for a conversation that I know I need but somehow would rather retreat into my own head and replay the last six months over and over. A six months of Sundays spent in bed, cocaine fueled pool parties, and conversations that would last well beyond sunrise.