November 17, 2011: Describe a hot day. CWE 46

A hot day bleeds.  You can’t get away from it.  Someone forgot to run the air through the washing machine during the night.  A hot day is dirty.  Heat sticks to you and leaves an ashy film.  Your sheets are limp.  The fine hairs on your arms are twisted into tiny sunbursts, glued in place with salt.  The creases behind your knees are slick.  Your knees make a sound when you stretch your legs and break the thick greasy seal.  You stand up, tired before the day begins.  The heat leeches life from you.  You are sluggish and loose at your joints, like a paperdoll joined with brads.  The heat hangs in the air, and it has form and color.  The white plastic of your alarm clock looks dull, and the shower curtain dotted with dancing animals hangs limps.  The animals are tired.  They want to find a place in the shade to hide from the heat and rest.  You shower and as you dry yourself with a faded towel, you aren’t sure if you’re wiping away water or sweat.  Your towel is limp and you don’t know if it needs to be washed or if it’s the humidity.  Your limbs shine.  The planes of your face are lit.  You wonder if this sheen makes you look alive and attractive or just gross.  Your hair hangs in strings around your face.  Your hands are tight when you make fists.  You are swollen.  It is a little cooler when you walk downstairs.  You question the tea your lover brewed you.  The heat from the traveling mug is no different from the heat hanging in curtains around you in the small kitchen.  You grasp the brass doorknob and turn it, the mug held between your breasts, and sweat leaks from the gully down to your stomach as you walk outside into the morning that is struggling to breathe in such heat.

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