It has been the type of hot where the heat seems to hang in the air and make each step exceedingly difficult, as though you are futilely trying to break through an impenetrable barrier of sludge. It smacks you in the face and clings to every single part of your skin. It seeps into every part of your being and just hangs there. Smothering. Suffocating. Sickening.
It's been the type of hot where even the air conditioner is sweating, and you snap more quickly than you used to. The heat has struck a match under every little annoyance, and then poof, there goes the fire. Your thoughts revolve around how hot it is, how great it would be not to be so hot, and when will it stop being so freaking hot. This, incidentally, does not make it any less hot.
It's been the type of hot where even the doorways are bloated, and the paint sticks to the doorframe and exposes the wood beneath. Every single surface seems to emanate heat, and they all do so in protest. You begin to memorize on which step the hot air hits you as you begrudgingly walk up the stairs, and you would give a big uugghhhh, but then you remember that speaking makes you feel hotter, so you just sweat some more.
It's been the type of hot where it brings out people's accents, as though the heat has somehow melted away our filters until each Midwestern twang and Southern drawl rattles around in our voices and exposes where we really came from. You almost want to make fun of these suddenly exaggerated pronunciations, but really, it's too hot to put too much effort into anything. It's better to just lean back into your chair, where you're suctioned to the seat anyway, and give in to your Long Island vowels.
It's been the type of hot where even the doorways are bloated, and the paint sticks to the doorframe and exposes the wood beneath. Every single surface seems to emanate heat, and they all do so in protest. You begin to memorize on which step the hot air hits you as you begrudgingly walk up the stairs, and you would give a big uugghhhh, but then you remember that speaking makes you feel hotter, so you just sweat some more.
It's been the type of hot where it brings out people's accents, as though the heat has somehow melted away our filters until each Midwestern twang and Southern drawl rattles around in our voices and exposes where we really came from. You almost want to make fun of these suddenly exaggerated pronunciations, but really, it's too hot to put too much effort into anything. It's better to just lean back into your chair, where you're suctioned to the seat anyway, and give in to your Long Island vowels.
But then there's a gust of cold air from an open door, or a heroic breeze that lifts your heavy hair from your sticky neck. There's an ice cube, or a lemonade, or maybe an ice cream, and it bravely fights the heat and reminds you that you will get through this. You will find the shade. It won't last forever. It can't last forever.
There will be relief.
And sometimes, there will also be Bell's Oberon.
