Dudes, it’s hot. It’s really, really hot. The weather obscures my view of Manhattan, rendering everything a sort of thick, impenetrable film of white hot heat, heavy with the promise of a rain that will not entirely relieve. I have been sleeping with the fan at my feet, and this morning I woke in a fever dream and changed positions, letting it blow directly over my head. I am replacing fluids as quickly as I am losing them: lots of water, iced Darjeeling, tomato juice. (Last night, a well-deserved Gatorade.) I am not built for the heat and Olive doesn’t seem to be either, and we are both spending our time in the apartment just kind of lying down, staring at each other.
I really want to move to Maine, and this desire increases daily. I would like to be cold most of the time. However, summer is improved/defined by certain things: basil/cucumber lemonade consumed in glasses filled with ice; sweating friends gathering around the window, a fan; a breathless bike tour of Brooklyn on the hottest day perhaps ever resulting in plunging into the cold cold ocean at the end and bobbing around before falling asleep by some rocks and then biking home until we thought we would die; drinking beer in basement bars and dancing with friends old and new to the thoroughly American jukebox; tacos. Also, gifts and kisses from loved ones. Here are some of those things.
I am sending gifts and kisses in response, but mostly kisses.