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fics-not-tragedies · 4 years

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One Day in December: Chapter 4 🎇

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - epilogue

Words: 3696; Warnings: none, unless you want a warning for drinking then you have it; Summary: In another year Andrew tries to fix what he screwed up last year, but even though Bianca came through alone - she really isn’t.

Hozier tag list:

@letoursilencebreaktonight; @angelpeachamber; @sgt-morgan; @julessbrown;

December 2013

Andrew didn’t know what to do with himself this year. It was his first Christmas alone in over two years. He split with his girlfriend only few months prior… and since he was on the receiving end of the breakup, the wound was still fresh. He didn’t miss her really… well, he did… but it was more like he missed being with someone.

The thing was… the morning after he cried himself to sleep like a stupid baby… he woke up from a dream about Bianca. It’d been nearly a year again already, and suddenly, he didn’t feel as horrible as he had. Her face and the way she looked just before they were about to kiss under that godforsaken mistletoe, was the singular image that carried him through until two weeks before Christmas when he headed home to Wicklow. He was going to stay with his parents for awhile, hide away and let his mum take care of him. It was the main perk of being the only child, and also a mama’s boy.

For a week, he migrated from location to location in his parents’ house; his old bedroom… the couch in the sitting room… the kitchen table where his mum made him all his favorite meals… It was perfect. He did nothing but watch tv, eat biscuits, and think about her.

Maybe if he had some way to contact her, he would, but he still never found out who she was related to at the party. Then again, even if he did have her number, he was too chicken to call her; especially after how she left last year.

Instead of being an adult, he just made himself sick over her for a week, thinking about all the conversations they could possibly have this year… what he’d say… how he’d act… He was giving himself anxiety over it, and he had no idea if she’d even show up in the first place.

The day of the party had come, and he was going with Ryan and Cormac and even Rory. They’d all come home to see their families, and Andrew finally had someone to hang out with. They met up beforehand, just down the street, passing a flask between the four of them. It was silly and dumb, but it made Andrew feel loads better. The best part was, everyone made a pact to come alone so Andrew wouldn’t feel left out.

“How are you feeling Andy? Look like you’ve been sleeping well. Getting fed. Raine makes you all your favorite meals?” Alex asked, taking a swig from the flask and thrusting it in his direction.

Andrew chuckled, “Yeah… made my favorite biscuits, too. I’m a spoiled little boy” he coughed when the alcohol burned his throat and he handed it off to Rory, “I’m glad you guys are here. Getting lonely, actually.”

“Well… no one told you to run away to your mum, did they?” Cormac grinned, nearly finishing off the booze.

“He’s got a point” Alex muttered through the collar and scarf he’d pulled up tight around his ears, “Are we fucking done yet? I’m freezing out here.”

“Right…” Rory finished the flask and tossed it back into the car and the four of them trudged through the muddy snow to the house.

The party was already in full swing; seemingly much more loud and rowdy then it had been in years past. They shuffled through the front door single file, shaking off the cold as they waved and nodded to friends they hadn’t seen in ages. It was a good welcoming… everyone happy to see their hometown heroes. And it was rare that they were all together for a change in the same place.

They barely removed their coats when someone passed them a shot and Andrew wondered what kind of night this was going to turn into. He’d thrown his coat over his arm until he could make it to the backroom, knocking back the shot with the guys before going off in search of a beer to wash it down. He entered the kitchen to find the fridge wide open, someone bent in front of it. He stood back a little, not wanting to be rude and push through.

“What kind did you want?” The voice called to a girl standing just behind her.

Andrew raised his eyebrows, the girl’s voice behind the fridge sounding awfully familiar. She popped up a second later, and Andrew gasped.

Bianca.

She was here.

She hadn’t seen him yet, her back to him still. He momentarily contemplated running out until he was better prepared to talk to her, but it was too late. She was already peering back at him with those pretty hazel eyes of hers. She looked… so good. Better than his memory served him.

“Thought you weren’t coming this year?” Andrew blurted suddenly, and he felt the blush creep up his neck to his cheeks.

Of all the fucking things you planned on saying…

“Nice to see you, too” Bianca grinned, leaning against the fridge, “Can I get you something while I’m in here?”

“Em… yeah… just… a beer… whatever’s…in there…” Andrew stammered, brushing his hair back feeling like a complete fool. Two months worth of anguish over this girl, and this is how he behaves.

Bianca pursed her lips, raising her eyebrows before ducking back into the fridge and grabbing one for each of them. She opened both their bottles and handed one to Andrew.

“Cheers, love” he murmured and she grinned before taking a sip.

Bianca studied him over the top of the glass, how different he looked this year as opposed to last. His hair was longer, fluffier, and the front strands framed his face so adorably. He wore a maroon sweater, tight-fitting with the sleeves pushed up, and jeans so worn in she felt like reaching out to touch how soft they were.

“How you’ve been?” She finally asked, once they’d stared at each other long enough before the silence became uncomfortable.

“Alright… you?” He said softly, unable to take his eyes off her. Here she was. Live and in the flesh. Standing across from him in the same kitchen they’d stood in at least once every year. Her hair was done up in a purposely undone bun on top of her head, her bangs grown-out and swept to the sides of her face. Little wisps hung down like flyways… and his fingers twitched from wanting to tuck it back over her ear, to let his fingers linger down her neck…

“Better than last year” she grinned, her bright smile stretching across her face.

“Last year…” he murmured, taking another sip of his beer, “That year was a bit shit, wasn’t it?”

Her eyes widened and she smiled, “Yes. Yes it was. But this year seems to be shaping up to be better already.”

It was Andrew’s turn to smile now, and he mirrored hers, “Yes. Yes it is.”

They were right.

They were able to talk for once, hanging around in the same little clique. All the boys were together, and they were all in good spirits, telling jokes and stories. Bianca listened with wide eyes, fully enthralled in every tale. They made her laugh and being with Andrew made her feel as if perhaps last year had never even happened.

He sat perched on the arm of the couch, pushing his sleeves up as they kept slipping, telling a story quite animatedly with his hands flying about for emphasis. Bianca was staring, she knew it, and when he caught her eye, she bit her lip and bowed her head; he’d caught her. He smiled almost bashfully and stuttered a second as he lost his train of thought. He scratched his head, ruffling his hair until the thought came back around and he picked up where he left off.

He was beautiful she decided.

The Christmas tree was just behind him, back-lighting his profile and she squinted a little, making the lights behind him look blurry in her vision. It was like a rainbow glow hummed around him and she secretly wished she could sneak her phone out and snap a picture of him; to remember him just as he was right now. But it wasn’t worth it.

The camera could never capture how perfect he looked.

The karaoke was back.

When the regular party music was turned down, everyone groaned, but it quickly became as popular as it had been last year. Every drunk partygoer took a turn, and everyone laughed egging them on. Even Alex had a go with Rory singing backup to some silly Christmas song.

Bianca and Andrew were tucked away in the corner, talking quietly, getting warm from the outdoors. She’d followed him outside earlier for a smoke, getting lost in the way he looked when he puffed on his cigarettes… the way the little clouds curled up around his head, and the way he held it between his fingers. She was mesmerized all night by him and who he’d become. She found herself getting lost in his gentle muddy eyes, admiring the long lashes and the way they brushed against his cheeks.

Andrew had caught her staring again, for the hundredth time that night. It made his stomach twist in knots, and he felt like he could spend the whole night just hanging out beside her. She was wearing a cute little knit dress, always a dress, and stockings with tiny hearts. His own heart ached at how adorable she was. He knew he should make his move, but… he honestly didn’t know the move to make. He didn’t want to screw this year up as bad as the last. So he chose to do nothing. He would let the night play out and see what happened.

The party was dying; many of the guests had gone home or were idling about talking in clusters throughout the house; just hanging on to the evening as long as they could. Andrew had imbibed just enough beers to make him a bit bold and a lot romantic. He was sitting beside Bianca, their legs touching completely, watching some horrible rendition of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ by someone very drunk who assumed they sounded much better than they did. They giggled, trying not to poke too much fun at the very serious performer.

“Honestly, I thought that’d never end” Andrew muttered, arms crossed over his chest when the last notes faded away.

“Mmm,” Bianca smiled, “you should go up there. Show everyone how it’s done.”

Andrew seemed to shrink back into the couch, trying to disappear altogether, “Em…”

“Come on. I’ve never seen you sing before” she countered, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Do you live under a rock?”

“Noooo… I meant live, silly. In front of my own eyes!” She teased elbowing him.

He chuckled, “You should come to one of my gigs then. Can work out a triple A pass for you, if you want.”

“No, no, no!” She exclaimed, shoving him, “Sing me a Christmas tune, like… here at the party. I’m in the mood for a cliche holiday song.”

“What… that last one didn’t do it for you?” He joked, sitting forward and pushing up his sleeves again.

“Absolutely not. Get going.”

“Alright, alright” he smiled, hauling himself off the couch and over to the laptop that was set up with an open playlist. He stumbled a bit, tugging at the hem of his sweater while he scrolled the list finding one could do properly. He grabbed the mic, spotting the one he wanted.

Clearing his throat, he mumbled, “Em… I’ve had a couple of drinks so… dunno how well this’ll sound… but…”

He didn’t need to watch the little screen, he knew the lyrics well. When the tune kicked in Andrew started off shaking a bit even though there weren’t many people watching. He didn’t really care who was present anyways, because he only had eyes for her.

Bianca sat tucked into the couch, holding her drink with both her hands on her lap. Her full focus was on him, and he smiled shyly at her, making eye contact.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful

And since we've no place to go

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

Bianca’s heart pounded so hard in her chest, she swallowed back the sound, hoping no one could hear it. She was melting, melting down right into the couch because he was singing not just for her, but to her. She glanced around to see if anyone else was paying attention, and there were a few, but when she glanced back, his eyes were still on her.

“It doesn't show signs of stopping

And I brought some corn for popping

The lights are turned down low

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”

She sucked in her breath, the way his fingers pushed up the sleeves of that maroon sweater, and the way he gripped the mic, his nose just skimming the top of it. He had a scrap from a silver tinsel garland hanging haphazardly around his neck, and it made him look so much sweeter.

“When we finally kiss goodnight

How I'll hate to go out in the storm

But if you really hold me tight

All the way home I'll be warm”

Bianca worried her bottom lip as his eyes closed just for a moment to croon that particular line. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hug him; to cover him in kisses. Maybe they could run away together, and then they wouldn’t have a reason to come back to this silly party ever again…

“The fire is slowly dying

And my dear, we're still goodbying

But as long as you love me so

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”

Andrew wanted to be with her; to see her again outside of this little bubble. The notes faded out, and he stared at her intently, making sure she knew. He clicked off the mic and set it aside, pushing up those damn sleeves again as he made his way back to the couch. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, his hands sweaty with nerves before he settled back in beside her.

“Hey…” he murmured, his body angled towards her, his arm on the back of the couch, so close to her now he could smell her perfume and he breathed in subtly to remember the notes forever.

Bianca’s heart was beating fast and she put her hand over it to calm it down. This… this wasn’t what she’d expected tonight; didn’t even think she’d still feel this way after all this time, but…

Andrew didn’t know if it was the right thing to do or not, but he did it anyways. He placed his hand on her thigh. She was soft and warm, and he knew she was going to taste sweet when he finally-

“Andrew… I-” she began, her voice small and timid.

“Bianca… I screwed up last year… I’m sorry… I, em… shouldn’t have let it go that far… I ruined your night… em, and it’s destroyed me ever since” Andrew admitted, getting out some of the words he’d practiced so many times over, “And then I let you leave… and, em… it’s crushed me ever since.”

He squeezed her thigh just above her knee, and she looked down at his hand, covering it with her own, “Andrew… it’s… it’s okay. That was a long time ago… I just think you should know…”

But Andrew wasn’t listening. Instead, he was leaning in towards her… his muddy eyes nearly falling closed as he licked his lips in anticipation. Bianca whimpered, the smell of him intoxicating her, his hand so soft and a little bit rough as he squeezed her. She could do it. She could close her eyes and do it. Just let it happen.

She gulped, watching him tilt his head in preparation and she gripped his fingers tight; hoping he’d understand, “Andrew, stop.”

This time, he heard her.

He halted, hovering so close to her, only pulling away just slightly. His eyes were full of confusion as he searched hers, “What? Do you, em… should we go somewhere else?”

Bianca shook her head, the tears prickling behind her eyes. How many times was she gonna cry at this stupid party anyways?

“No. I can’t… I can’t go anywhere with you. Not tonight.”

“But Bianca… I thought…?” Andrew’s heart sunk, unsure of what was happening exactly. He’d put himself out there… read all the signs… all the signals she’d sent…

“You’re going to hate me. I hate me.”

“Tell me” he said quickly, needing an immediate answer. After these last two months of torment and anguish from losing one girl, and then pining after the next…

“I have a boyfriend, Andrew.”

What.

Andrew’s heart sunk into the pit of his stomach and when he fully took in what she said, he retracted from her so fast it was as if he’d just scorched his hand on a hot iron.

“A boyfriend?” He sputtered, his head a complete mess. “But why would you…? Where is he then?”

Bianca gulped, the expression on Andrew’s face breaking her heart into a thousand pieces, “He couldn’t make it tonight… he wanted to, but…”

“And you’re serious?” He asked her softly, raising his eyebrow in disbelief, “You’re not just having a laugh because of last year?”

“I’m not lying to you. I’m… so…” she didn’t want to simply say sorry because, it was too insensitive. She’d already crushed him, she couldn’t do it again, “I… apologize for… leading you on… honestly… I was enjoying your company so much… I just love being around you… and if-”

“Don’t say it” he struggled trying to get off the stupid couch, wishing he could literally disappear right then, “Don’t fucking tell me if he wasn’t in the picture, because I don’t want to hear it.”

“But it’s true, Andrew!” Bianca cried in a whisper, sitting forward as he stood up. She ruined everything.

“That was a shit thing to do. You should know that.”

She’d never seen him upset. Ever. This was new. And it was eating her alive. She scrambled off the couch and after him as he turned to leave. “Wait!” she exclaimed, much louder than she’d intended. A few people turned to look at them, including Alex and Rory who’d come back into the room after all this time. She bowed her head sheepishly in front of their audience.

Andrew turned back to her, lowering his head as he stepped closer, “Bianca. Listen…” he waited for her to look up into his eyes and it felt like a thousand knives stabbing him in the gut. Rusty mangled knives, “We’ve gotta stop doing this to each other, yeah?”

A tear slipped down her cheek as she stared into those beautiful eyes of his, his soft, fluffy hair falling across his forehead in waves, “Last year you were seeing someone. And it killed me. What you’re feeling right now is exactly how I felt.”

“So you did it on purpose? Led me on so you could… just, em, embarrass me like that? So I would hurt as much as you did? Like payback?” He scoffed in disbelief.

“No! Never! I never meant to…” she sighed, “Andrew. Listen to me. I have liked you since the moment I met you. I’ve thought about you every single year since… and I thought… well… I can’t sit around and wait forever, so… I did something about it.”

Andrew sighed, “It’s just… never been the right time, has it?”

“No. It hasn’t” she told him softly, exhaling heavily.

“I don’t have anything else to say right now… em, so if you’ll excuse me… I’m gonna go.”

She grabbed his large hand, stopping him, “Wait…” he looked back at her, and she stood on her tiptoes, cupping his face with her other hand before placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

He looked down at her with so much sadness in his eyes, her soft lips tearing his heart right out, “I hope you have a good holiday, Bianca. I’ll see you around” he squeezed her hand once before pulling away.

Her hand dropped to her side when he let go, and she watched him sulk away, her legs like jelly. It was over. She’d literally ruined everything. Again. She should’ve just let it happen. What harm would a kiss have done?

Well, it ruined your last relationship, so…

“What just happened? Where’s Andy going? Why does your face look like you’ve seen a ghost? Too much to drink?” Alex’s slightly drunk questions were relentless.

“He hates me.”

Alex laughed, “Why’s that? You broke his heart or something?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. I did. I told him I have a boyfriend.”

His face fell, “Oh” he watched Andrew escape through the front door, “That’s unfortunate… He erm… just broke up with his girl not too long ago, so… he’s feeling… sorta down right now. You know like, a gaping wound where his heart were before?”

Bianca closed her eyes. Maybe one year she wouldn’t fuck up royally, “Perfect. Well… I tried to apologize, but” she sighed, giving up, “He forgot his coat, Alex.”

“I’ll get it. Don’t worry” he patted her back, “It’s gonna be fine. He’ll be fine.”

She nodded as he too left her. And once again; she was alone.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking her out of her trance. Some small part of her hoped it was Andrew… but then she realized, they’d never bothered to exchange any information.

I miss you. I hope you’re having fun. x

She sighed deeply at her boyfriend’s text, sending off a quick response, unsure even of what she said. The only thought on her mind now was Andrew, and the face he made just before he left.

“Merry fucking Christmas, Bianca.”

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katef-m · 7 years

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California, month six | that great strong land of love

Apartment twenty, early January 2017. C arrives in a rainstorm, late the first evening, and we brew tea immediately. The new place is a mess: floorboards awash with scattered q-tips and dustballs and broken clothes hangers, strange objects huddled in corners (a china monkey money box, an elephant-shaped watering can, a half eaten bag of cough drops, a dented can of chopped green beans), the rooms heavy with the cloying odour of a four-week full bin. All day I'd cleaned and unpacked. I wiped, dusted, sprayed, filled bag after bag with rubbish, and swept the floors with a plastic orange brush I bought at the Japanese dollar store. When I'd arrived that morning, shoulders burning after carrying my bags up to the second floor, it took all my willpower not to sink into the bottom bunk's bare rubber mattress and sob. Everything was so dirty, and I was adrift in unfamiliarity again. But instead I put on some music, rolled up my sleeves, and got to it. By the time C's at the door, the rooms are a little more habitable, and when I hear her moving about in the living room, putting the kettle on, it already feels like home. Peace and sun, those first few days. Golden hour is ridiculous from the window of our new room. Last semester I could see the Sather Tower and used its hourly peals to structure my day; now I can watch the hills behind campus, the way they reflect the sun at dawn and dusk, the way the small houses at the top wink in the dark. Day trips to the city. Waiting for the bus with 7-Eleven coffee and donuts. Loafing at the top of Bancroft with thermos flasks as the sun dips. It's warm enough to sit outside, though you'll need a scarf. It doesn't feel like any January I know. Getting tangled in freeways on the first few half-marathon training runs. Saturday afternoon at the farmers' market. Everybody outside in warm blue. Herb bundles in bicycle baskets, a girl in dungarees with fruit under her arm, that sort of thing. Fresh bread and sunshine. So far, January in California feels like April in England, and I am very much ok with that.

When Trump's sworn in nobody wants to look. I'm at work, anyway, and I have to make smoothies for a bunch of Trump supporters. The peanut butter scoop shakes in my hand. Later we race down Telegraph towards Oakland to catch the tail end of the inauguration day protest. Police in riot gear wait along Oakland's peripheries as the protestors head towards the city centre, yet all is peaceful: downtown we're met with free pumpkin pie, not tear gas or stun guns. The air isn't charged the way it was on election night, not raw with pain, yet the voices are louder, more defiant. The following morning we make signs from cardboard boxes raided from the recycling bins. NASTY WOMEN UNITE. VIVA LA VULVA. GRAB 'EM BY THE PATRIARCHY. The San Francisco bus is full of students: it almost feels like a school trip: there's not much traffic on the bridge: a parade of children forced on a pro-life march drift past the bus windows and we all get angry: and then we're in a one-hundred-thousand strong crowd at Civic Center, a damp fierce knot of umbrellas and battered signs and fists. It's International Women's Day. In the dusky rain we march and sing, and are filled with hope. 'I refuse to call him president,' says the elderly lady sitting next to me at Caffe Strada a few days later. Solace, as ever, is sought in the words of my favourite poets. Thousands of miles away in Australia, Bruce Springsteen speaks out against Trump's Muslim Ban. 'America is a nation of immigrants,' he says, 'and we find this anti-democratic and fundamentally un-American'. And then there's Langston Hughes:

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed -- Let it be that great strong land of love

Alternative coping mechanisms are also available: homemade cocktails (White Russians and hibiscus gin), playing every song that ever existed, dancing on chairs into the wee hours. Federer winning the Australian Open, his eighteenth slam at the age of thirty-five. Saturday evening at the marina with friends, sitting on the rocks by the water to witness a sunset too beautiful to hold on to. Faces and hair lucent with golden light.

Most of all though, a visit from my mum. Spring semester is relentless. The workload is final-level-Tetris heavy. 'I don't know what I'm writing,' I complain to C one night. 'I'm two letters into a word and I don't know what it's going to be yet.' Classes almost doubled, I take the early morning shifts at work. The alarm's set for that pre-7am no man's land, but as a night owl, sleep is unavoidably sacrificed. I learn to survive on five or six hours, but this hallmark of adulthood won't stay with me long: as soon as school ends and life slows down in June, my nine hour nightly dosage resumes. For now, though, daily life has changed hugely. Yet the change itself occurred unnoticed, giant and silent in the corner of some room I might've walked through once. I no longer have time to burrow deep into the frivolous recesses of my brain; every scene passes by too fast, like trying to take a picture from the window of a speeding train. I think I like it this way, though. It's true: the busier you are, the more you do, and the more you do, the more you want to do. Mum arrives the night of the Milo Y riots. As I open belated Christmas presents in her Airbnb apartment we hear the rumble of helicopters over Telegraph. My social media feeds erupt with footage of fires and bangs. 'Berkeley's not always like this,' I feel compelled to point out more than once. The streets are scattered with debris and people smoke against makeshift wire fences, eyes bright, bodies still charged. Walking to work the next morning, the physical effects of the riots are clear in the cold eye of dawn. Anti-Trump graffiti embellishes the walls of the bank, a building made 'riot-proof' in the sixties. On campus, trees are singed black at the tips, the Amazon locker room windows smashed in, and the hulking jumble of burned tech equipment sits sooty in the middle of Sproul Plaza like some kind of contemporary art sculpture. Mum's staying in the 'Purple House', a wood-walled ground-floor apartment in Elmwood. I love staying there with her, love the non-student perspective on Berkeley life it provides. We shop in Whole Foods and cook together, finish morning runs with coffee. I show her the campus, the streets, the city across the bay. I introduce her to my friends and my favourite bus routes. She keeps me company on coffee shop study dates and buys me the enormous slice of apple pie I've been eyeing all year. It is a special twelve days.

After days of rain, the sun returns and Mum finally sees the California I've been raving about, the clear blue skies, the dazzle at the ends of streets and hilltops. We spend her final weekend in San Francisco. Resistance posters have appeared in windows both sides of the bay, and in the Mission District, Four Barrel's coffee cups come stamped with the words 'Resist Fear, Assist Love' in rainbow ink. Catch the bus to Haight-Ashbury. Get coffee at Stanza, or Flywheel, which sits at edge of the neighbourhood where Golden Gate Park looms dark. The Goodwill store is messy, and 80% junk, but if you hunt hard you'll find things at a tenth of the price of other Haight thrift stores. There's a real good bookstore somewhere along the street: you'll find it. Buena Vista is all steps, but catch another bus a little south, as the roads start to climb. It'll only take you halfway up; when you alight, follow Twin Peaks Boulevard as it snakes uphill, and eventually you'll reach the carpark and viewpoint at the top. Most people drive up to Twin Peaks but it's better to watch the view unfold gradually, angles and gradients shifting, until the rusted tips of the Golden Gate Bridge poke out above buildings and cloud to your left, and the entire city arranges itself around you, better than any virtual map could. You'll finally understand the confusing geography of San Francisco, how the multiple grid systems shuffle against each other, the dance of streets and hills. You'll note the physical relief of the landscape, from the smooth natural contours of the earth to the tall stubbed cluster of the financial district. The white buildings shine pristine in afternoon light, so that the entire city looks celestial. And all of it held by the water beyond. From the peaks of the city, move to its edges: ride the Muni all the way through Sunset out to Ocean Beach, and watch the sun sink softly into the water. Everybody will stand motionless on the sand to watch, as if it's a drive-in movie. Colours will drift about and alter the look of the water, sand, and air. Deep sky blue, viridian, turquoise, champagne pink, peach, apricot, tiffany, pale indigo. To heighten the liminal magic, you have the beach's routine haze and majestic scale: the height of the waves, the sand's expanse, how the scene looks both stretched out and zoomed in, like so much of the American landscape.

* * * Songs: month six Fluorescent Adolescent / Arctic Monkeys Get Lucky / Daft Punk Wild World / Cat Stevens Christmas in February / Lou Reed Pacific Theme / Broken Social Scene Stolen Dance / Milky Chance Mother & Child Reunion / Paul Simon * * *

California so far:

California, month one | in and out of the game

California, month two | the dust settles

California, month three | your lows will have their complement of highs California, month four | throw comfort out

#USA #Travels #California #berkeley

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