Wet Heat / by Christina Rosalie

The humidity was unbearable today. Dark billowing clouds hinted at thunderstorms in the stratosphere but no rain came to rinse the water out of the air. I felt like I had bathed in apple juice. Made me wish for impossibly cool things: iced tea in a limo, an arctic cruise, the chill of an Imax theater watching Shackleton's arctic adventures. Anything but the limp, raggedy, wet-crotch feeling of walking around in the heat. We took a walk a Bosnian deli near the waterfront. They sell homemade tiramisu cake and smoked beef paninis and all kinds of packaged European goodies. The proprietor was a gregarious lady with a curly mop of hair, bug eyes and an accent who spent the entire time she was preparing our food, ogling at Bean.

We brought our sandwiches down to the waterfront, where we sat on the lawn in the shade and pretended to enjoy ourselves. Only Bean, rolling around on his blanket in the buff, was comfortable in the heat. DH and I could talk of nothing but our discomfort: about the inevitable chaffing that comes with walking long distances on days with 90% humidity; about my hair sticking to my neck like a woolen shawl; about the prickly heat rashes on our legs from sitting on the grass. We had plans to go running and for a swim in the lake, but came home instead, and sank gratefully onto the futon couch where we watched yesterday's Tour De France results and fell into a heat-stupor induced nap.