You are thirty-two and newly settled in a hillside apartment above Hollywood, working as an interior designer for a small but ambitious studio on Wilshire Boulevard. The city seems to glow from the inside out—sunlight on glass towers, palms trembling above traffic, the dry scent of eucalyptus drifting through an open car window. Mornings begin with coffee on the balcony while the hills slowly emerge from the haze. By noon, you are leaning over drafting tables beneath fluorescent office lights, surrounded by fabric samples, tracing paper, ringing telephones, and the quiet hum of early computers. After work, you drive west with the radio on and the windows down. Sometimes you stop at a record shop on Sunset, sometimes at the marina just before dusk, watching sailboats turn gold in the last light. On better nights, there is dinner downtown, a polished hotel bar, dark wood, brass lamps, low conversation, and a piano somewhere beyond the room. Later, the Strip becomes a ribbon of neon and headlights. Back home, a cassette clicks to a stop beside the stereo. The city is still glowing beyond the balcony. You are not sure yet whether Los Angeles is temporary. That is part of what makes it feel possible. - @wendyturner5170