I take the train to the gym wanting to read my book but really wanting to cut the distance by three blocks. Too hot.
Walk from the train to the gym and smell asphalt the whole way, car exhaust, city grime -- the stuff that multiplies in the heat.
I don't feel like working out. Too tired and hungry and hot.
The locker-room hits me hard with a wall of perfume and anti-perspirant and chatter and hairdryers and sweat and steam.
I find a locker and began to organize myself. Ugh. No shorts. Must've pulled them out when I was rearranging my bag this morning. Dammit.
Repack and head for the busses. Four blocks. The pavement at my stop was recently doused with water probably from the sprinklers on the courthouse lawn, an arm's reach away through iron fence. The water evaporates quickly.
The bus is hot and sticky, just like you'd expect. The window open only four inches from my neck teases me with intermittent breezes. Barely does a breeze kick up when someone *dings* the driver and he comes to a stop.
I climb the hill to my house. A steep, relentless hill but not too far. I'm drenched.
I walk in the house, breathing hard. Drop my bag and keys on the floor with a thunk and a clatter.
I peel off my shirt and head to the cupboard. A big, heavy glass. Ice. Water. An ice-cream Snickers bar from a box that I argued not to get. (I really didn't protest enough.)
I take the water and ice-cream to the bedroom and click on the fan. Top speed. I rotate slowly, taking first big gulps of water and then dainty bites of ice-cream.
The cat paws at my leg for attention. I ignore him.
Slowly, I feel cool.
Then I walk by the hallway mirror and notice myself: topless, dishevelled, with a smudge of chocolate on my lower lip. I have to laugh.
I had forgotten to take my sunglasses off.
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