The heat is protracting the days here. Open arms for the respit in the cool nights that liberate us. Hands sticky on bike handles and bass necks and cigarette filters. We just wait. You can't do much else.
Last night I wanted air conditioning and lobotomizing entertainment. Instead I got air conditioning and Spiderman 2, which made me hate Kristen Dunst and that snaggletooth of hers equally. I spent the last 40 minutes of it wishing I had brought a magazine to read. I called Miles and Morgan, they had been dousing their coke Slurpees with whiskey, they were pink and wet looking when I arrived. They did not want to move. I joined them in their torpor. Morgan showed us scars from her surgery, spoke at length on her cat's urinary tract infection, made us watch Cool Hand Luke. Her and Miles argued about whose turn it was to buy cigarettes. The sweat from the back of my legs adhered me to the couch. No one spoke. No one moved. If I had not gotten up when I did, I am certain I would have died there.
Today, the humidity is the killer. All the babies in my neighboorhood are stripped to visors and diapers, slicking the arms of the women protectors with their stinkless baby sweat. Even the man with the Michocan cart has his shirt off, baring a portaiture on his chest of what might be a grey panther head or a map of Oahu or dress socks in a pile. All shirtless men will soon be drunk or fighting, as that is what the weather dictates.Posted by Jessica at July 22, 2004 03:37 PM | TrackBack