The sand is hot and gritty between his toes. It's a sickening feeling that doesn't get any better when he sits down. The sand is now a greater enemy than any of their threats. The little grains are everywhere and with every new grain that finds its way onto his carpet, bed or towel, his hatred grows. In New York this problem did not exist. In New York there is no sand just lying around.
It's not just the sand.
The sun shines early in the morning and does not lose its intensity throughout the day. It's warm, it's dry, it's unbearable. He misses the rain and the gray clouds. The slushy snowy days, which are only nice in the Central Park because there it has a chance to lie down. He misses the fog that settles over New York. Of course there were sunny, warm or even hot days when every movement was too much, but it was limited and bearable.
The people on the east coast are also more pleasant. New Yorkers are aloof and don't seek conversation when they're grabbing coffee or walking the dog in the park. In L.A. everyone always seems to be in a good mood and ready to chat. He's a big city guy, in the wrong big city.
The sun is at an angle on the horizon that makes it impossible to see further out to sea. He pulls the sunglasses down, from where they were resting on his head. Sunglasses are also something you don't need that much on the east coast. In the last two months alone, he had to buy seven new pairs of glasses because each one was the victim of various attacks. Lucky chewed two. He lost one in the water. Number Four, broke when Sunstroke attacked the city and it turned out that the sunglasses didn't help against Sunstroke's solar radiation. He lost one at headquarter and the other one just disappeared.
It's an advantage that there are sunglasses on every corner.
A light sea breeze touches him and fresh salt air envelops him. The water in front of him glitters in different shades of red and gold and small waves break on the beach. A dog trotts out of the water, shakes itself and the drops glitter as they fly in all directions. Behind the dog, a man steps out of the water.
And that's one of the reasons he likes the west coast.
The man is bathed in golden light and appears to shimmer as he tucks the surfboard under his arm. Defined muscles and tanned skin that never seems to end. Wet dark blonde hair, which is longer than usual, frames the face and lets drops of water slide down.
It's a sight he will never get tired of.
It's a sight burned into his mind.
Barking happily, the labrador stormed towards him. Sand is whirled up and mixed with the wet fur. "Ugh Lucky," Marc says as the golden Labrador jumps into his lap. The tail hits his face and Marc tries to spit the grains of sand out of his mouth. It's mediocre, as Lucky keeps snuggling up to him and seemingly using him as his personal towel. "Lucky," says Marc with a small smile and tries to push the dog away.
"Exercising authority doesn't work that well, does it?" Clint asks amusedly, shielding him a bit from the sun. "Funny," Marc replies, looking up. "I would have put it down to your upbringing." The Labrador makes a noise of agreement and settles on the lap. Marc sighs but starts patting his head. "What a shame I never read the dog training book," laughs Clint, putting down the surfboard. "As soon as it comes out on audio, I'll listen to it"
He settles down next to Marc. "No, you won't," Marc smiles and Clint grins. "You know me too well". A wet sandy hand grabs his. I'll never get rid of the sand, he thinks with a sigh and looks at the horizon where the sun and the water seem to touch. It's a beautiful sight that he wouldn't get in New York. He wouldn't have Clint sitting half-naked next to him either. At least not every day.
He can tolerate the sand as long as Clint doesn't give up surfing.
And maybe, the west coast isn't so bad after all.