With the heat comes the sensation of running through oil or of fighting the weight of a duvet to find space for air. How can you write in this weather? How can you do much of anything?
On the subway last week I remembered a day-dream I would have as a child on summer days as I toiled over school books in a baking hot classroom. I would imagine that the entire playing field was filled with apple juice. When the the bell rang for our mid morning break, I saw myself rushing to dive into the giant pool, gulping down mouthfuls of cool refreshing juice as I swam.
As my train pulled into the spring street stop that morning, a young boy and his father quietly stepped into my carriage and after the doors had bing-bonged shut and we had shunted out of the station I heard the boy say "Dad, wouldn't it be cool if the whole of Spring street were a river of soda and you could just put your hand in and take a drink?"
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