heat wave

It is one million degrees outside, and she sighs, determined (the way one might halfheartedly declare, "we are going to run five errands with six children in tow"), "we are going to the river." And so, we do: my lover, the two girls and I. We drive there stiffly, tight-lipped, thighs stuck to the leather seats of the car.

"Is the air conditioning not working?"

"No, I don't think it is." 

"Fuck."

 

We can barely tolerate the sweetest of questions from the back seat.

"Mama? Can anybody touch a cloud? What does it feel like?"

My brain is a cloud in this heat.

But then we arrive, and the river is just as perfect as it could possibly be.

I love swimming with her best of all.

I love rivers. I love being in a river.

I love being in my body when it's not one million degrees.

I wish to be swimming naked, for the other swimmers to vacate the area, for her to press herself against me, all slippery skin in this cool, clean water.

But I make do with bathing suits and onlookers.

And the drive home is a whole new day.