It’s 89 degrees on the sixteenth day of June.
The chair I’m sitting in is turquoise but it’s as warm as if it were flat black. The sun paints long, summer shadows against the pavers of the coffee shop patio at which I’ve stationed myself and the air is still enough that breeze seems but a myth. Still, the long grass and leafy growth known so well by the Heart of Summer find it within themselves to dance a quiet celebration.
I’m sweating just sitting here, but maybe it’s just the necessary perspiration of cleansing the day from my tired body. The heat is welcomed after what felt like an endless winter.
The chocolate I bought at the counter, along with my kombucha, has already melted into a puddle on the open, silver wrapper. It’s okay. Manners be damned, I lick the whole damn thing with all the abandon of childhood with my shame sitting silenced in the corner where it belongs. I feel the sweetness wash over me and the instant kick of caffeine and it’s good. So good.
Summer has always been the sticky, sweet puddles of joy mixed with the insufferable heat of a sun dancing too close to its partner.
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