Desert storms arise out of nowhere. A bruised sky. Fat raindrops crashing into parched earth. Eerie, sideways wind, ratcheting the temperature downward twenty degrees in one hour.
In all of the threatening terror, I got the car from the valet. I veered into the soaked roadway, drove over the rushing canal.
To the mall.
To Lush, that bastion of fizzy bath bombs and swirled bubble bars. That place where one can go to watch cash money fizzle like fireworks in the bath tub.
The store that sells the Sex Bomb, one of my favorite things to do with almost seven freaking dollars. I think it’s the smell in Lush. It permeates the nostrils like cocaine and forces helpless females to buy and buy and buy.
I’m a helpless Sex Bomb addict.