[ESSAY]

[10/29/25]

You’ll Never Finish L.A.

by Maanasa Sundara

Laurel pulls out their Turkish Royals and I lean my back against the wall. I quit a few years ago, a fact I keep mentioning as a Pavlovian response to the whiffs of secondhand smoke. I’m wearing knee high black boots with cat hair stuck to the black linen exterior; craving divine intervention via finding a boyfriend. I enjoy how slightly dated pop hits soundtrack the night.

Later at the diner, I eavesdrop on conversations between strangers and think of all the texts I haven’t responded to. I dislike traditional diner food, so I opt for something basic and inoffensive to the senses. Carrot ginger soup. I pay attention to all stolen glances. Who’s secretly dating who?

We each spoke of the devil, so he walks in and sits at our leather booth. So aubergine. I wondered if the waiter remembers me from the previous night. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize he doesn’t. He’s too busy for that, and I like to hold anonymity and visibility in delicate balance. 

Jo brought Parable of the Sower as a beach read on the very same day the story begins—July 20, 2024—a fact which stuck with me as we were winding down. Something feels out of order, like an environmentalist who directs car commercials. Irony everywhere. 

I need to make the most of my time here on earth in ways that don’t involve a Vegas wedding. That means I should stop listening to people who romanticize ways to ruin their life. Love is simple: I just want someone to stand with, in line at Larchmont Wine, even as the world begins to end.

I know I’m going to miss this feeling at some point, far in the future. Tenderness between friends in a nearly empty movie theater. Lillian ate popcorn and turtle chips with chopsticks, occasionally and delicately transferring pieces over to my mouth. 

As the Summer winds down, the heat melts these moments and memories into a cold soup of neapolitan ice cream left out on the counter. Vivid pink, white, and brown turned purple-grey. The Hollywood Sign insists on taking notice. In its tarnished glory, it says, You’ll never finish LA. 

Daphne sends me a tweet about how everyone will be forgotten, even Bob Dylan. I notice the next day, in the book I’m reading, that Bob Dylan is singing about being remembered. The biopic came out this past year, so he’s got a little bit more time to remain in our collective memory. In my tarot spread at the beginning of the week, I drew the Death card. Here comes another ending.

MAANASA SUNDARA is a writer, makeup artist, and walking contradiction living in Los Angeles, CA. @chill_girl_archetype