A framed photo. It's a shakily-taken handheld shot of slightly over-exposed fireworks against a gentle dark blue sky.
July 4
These crowds are not kind. In fighting his way through the seas of
seawear-equipped strangers, Sherwood had taken all manner of elbows to the
face, chest, side, back...
If one of these bruises, I swear, he
grumbled to himself.
Rather lame way to get a bruise... though it's not like the coffee table
treats me any better.
His slip-on sneakers planted into the sand of one of Los Angeles' many long
and crowded beaches. The sun was working out its last few minutes; he had
time.
Sherwood began trudging along the beach, his gait kicking up sand
by the heels, some of which would come to irritate him in his shoe later.
The beach has always sucked for this exact reason.
More pushing, more shoving, more bumping... he finally stumbled out into a clearing in the crowd, a modest distance from the waterline. As dusk grew and surpassed its predecessor, the echoes of explosions could be heard across the city.
Along the water, in a distant fishing boat, lights shoot up into the sky,
bursting into sparks and colours to drift away on the wind.
Sherwood
takes a deep breath, his eyes locked up above the horizon. The sea breeze, the
buzz of humanity, and marvelous pyrotechnics, all in one glorious moment.
He can't help but smile.
"I found us a spot, L."
