Los Angeles had been built on a desert, just an afternoon’s drive from Death Valley. So in the 1930s, the city had planted tens of thousands of the lush trees, all imported from Mexico. She couldn’t remember, now, what his point had been. All she could remember was how animated he’d gotten, his nude body draped over the ugly hotel comforter while she gently stroked his back. Maybe Rick had meant that nothing was supposed to thrive here. Los Angeles was either an inspiring tribute to civilization’s ability to withstand an infertile soil, or the withering edifice of a generation’s best-laid
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