It’s hot. I’m not complaining; even when it’s upwards of 35°C, I can still remember February.
It’s hot still when I go out for my walk at 10 pm. The minute I step outside the air hugs in close like that blanket I’m dreaming about when I walk outside in February. I get across the street to the lake and it’s not much better. Everything and everyone has slowed down, even the water swells lazily against the piers, and ducks lollygag around, probably wondering why the stupid humans don’t just get in the water. I know I’m tempted.
Even the moon looks hot, so deep in colour it looks like it’s encased in amber, hanging sluggish in the sky behind thin, black cloud ribbons. Lovers loll about on grass pushing hair off shoulders, kissing lazily. Dogs amble along behind their humans. A solitary skater doesn’t work too hard as he arcs on one edge of wheel, then the other.
As I approach York Quay, I feel the smallest drop in temperature; there must be a breeze coming in from the east. There’s a little more action down here as if the people feel it too. Restaurant patios are full, more groups of people are hanging about on the pier taking pictures of one another. While I stop at the end to look at that orange moon still reluctant to climb higher, a guy behind me is hitting the wooden pier with two sticks in a repetitive beat. I might normally enjoy that, but he’s not very good at it; the beat doesn’t roll out of him naturally, instead it seems forced, with missed hits and awkward pauses. I find it annoying and intrusive against the hot night and so I move on towards home.
Back on the quieter end, boats sway against their docks. Most are dark, residents shut inside against the heat. Except one fella, stretched out flat in a chaise lounge on his deck. I’m envious; I wish I could sleep on a boat deck tonight.
I get home and I’m soaked through like a wet rag. Not willing to go anywhere near my lovely clean sheets like this, I take a cool shower and sit down to write while my hair dries.