In Brooklyn, sweat. And rain. At first, just heat lightning flaring between clouds. Flashes wrinkling through the undulating branches of the tree against the window. Anette and I sit on the couch drinking red wine out of real wine glasses for once. The fan makes the sweat prickle on our skin. On the stove, eggplant simmers with cut tomatoes, garlic, onion, chorizo, basil, oregano. I am insane to have even lit the stove, to want more heat in the apartment without air conditioning. My shirt is damp and stuck to my skin, sweat mats my hair across my forehead, mascara dripping on my cheekbones. Still, I can’t help but hold my face over the steam and scoop up a bite of tomato and eggplant, soft with hints of wine, balsamic, and sugar.
This has been a long month. The stultifying heat of July reaches record highs, the heat smothers my brain. I don’t write. Instead I lie on the floor and watch Nip/Tuck, my laptop propped on my legs, drinking water to quench some insatiable thirst. My throat still dry. I make involved to do lists I can’t begin to address, call landlords, pay bills, paint my toenails. I lose myself in this heat.
I feel it here, I say, and sweep my hand across my collarbones. My stress, like a prolonged caress, an ache of inactivity, of stuff.
Let’s take a walk and buy another bottle of wine, Anette says. We hope the air is cooler outside. The sky flashes. It’s just heat lighting. It’s fine, it’s fine, my heart beats. I am so afraid of lighting. Outside the breeze is like a bigger fan, but the air is already wet. By the time we get to the edge of the building, thunder grumbles loudly, close. Just to the bodega on the corner, Anette says, but already I’m turning back, I can’t, I can’t, I reach for her hand to make her turn around with me, but I grope air. » Continue reading this post...