photo by Robert Adams from his book Summer Nights, Walking
Late summer
I was sitting on the orange leather couch in Johnny’s living room. It was bordering the evening and it was as hot as it'd been all summer. The AC was trying its best but only seemed capable of blowing hot air. I peeled my thighs off the leather cushion, leaving behind a streak of sweat. I wiped it off with my hand. I could feel the sweat around my waist soaking through my denim shorts. I tucked in the front of my shirt for some relief. I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my hair. The liner of my hat was soaking wet.
Emma said she needed to run home for something. I offered to go with her. We told everyone we’d pick up tacos and beer on the way back. In the car, I put the windows down and stuck my head out. We listened to The Beatles, starting from the middle of The White Album with ‘Yer Blues.’
We took our time. Late summer calls for a change of pace. There is a timelessness to the sunsets in August, even though time becomes more evident. Memories solidify in orange resin. I know I will feel nostalgic looking back, even though I beg for relief from the humidity that never breaks, not even in the dead of night.
March 2024