It’s humid. We all sweat. Clouds gather, and we hear thunder, but the promise of rain is not kept. Only dry lightning, fires on the ridges. The swamp cooler doesn’t work. What rain does fall drizzles down with no result greater than dust stains on the windshield. People around me seem heavy, tense. When we move, anger and fear swim beneath the surface of our bearing, waiting for the slightest provocation. Viscera are on alert for fight and flights.
What the hell does that mean?
His pants hang loosely, too big around his waist, heavy and caked with film and fumes of the street. What is he doing here? I can’t think about a hole in someone else’s chest.
“It’s a long bike ride,” I say. His hands grip the sun-rotted grips on the bars of his dilapidated machine and his eyes go filmy.
The morning sun is already hot and I feel the first rivulets of sweat run down my back, and heat rising from the asphalt parking lot.
I keep wondering about the hole in that man’s chest, now swept away by the tides that rise and ebb in my own. Now if the rain would just fall, in curtains, for days.