hot day

A fetid day, fat with heat and moisture and imagined pollution, has been served up around here and it's not even 9 a.m.

It pleases me, in some perverse way, that the heat gets to my 20-year-old son. It makes me feel that I have an excuse for turning into a limp washcloth.

The days of an imagined, indefatigable ability to meet the elements and be their master are gone.

Plop.