Burning in My Heart

In the summer, New York lulls, and trudges through the day exhausted and dirty, but grateful for every air conditioning blast from an open shop. New Yorkers stare at the sky and wait for rain to break the heat. It can be clear and blue, but you can feel everyone's eyes incline upwards, just hoping.

I don't have air conditioning. We never did have it because we never spent summers in New York, and I cannot now condone it - not after my hippie make over in the land of composting. So, my roommates and I place a fan in every corner of the house and hope, like everyone else, for that crash of thunder.

I went for a run today, and had to stop before I was done because the heat was so thick, I felt ill. I figured that it was evening, and there was no longer any direct sunlight, so I should be fine. But it just sits on you, like you were in the South. Except you're also dirty. I rubbed dirt off the back of my neck today while I was on the subway. I would've felt awkward about it, except that I knew a) no one was looking at me anyway and b) if anyone else on that subway had rubbed the back of their neck, they would have found dirt there as well.

Then, tonight, it broke.

Laying on bed in my underwear, positioned directly in front of the fan and reading the Times, there was this sudden whoosh from the window, and my curtain exploded into the room. You could literally see the cold front move in. And then the lightning and the thunder and the wind and everything changed. Just like that.

And I was feeling down. I was missing someone, and the coast all at once (perhaps they are inseparable). And then this shift - Kate and I lying in her room today unable to move, now standing at my window as the apartment cools down and shampoo bottles fall in the bathroom.

Trees are falling onto the roof, and the lady with the dog on our hallway is freaked out ("This is very weird weather. Everyone's scared").

I think it's amazing. Heat storm with lightning over Broadway. And tomorrow it's only supposed to be 87.