The air in summer

Today is the hottest day of the summer. Only the second day over 90 degrees since May. It's 95 degrees out, so hot you almost don't notice the humidity. I have an internship in a hermetically sealed box - the room I'm in has one high window, six feet wide and one foot tall, right by the ceiling. The air in here is thin, and all I can see is pale blue sky, with clouds just peeking in at the edges of the window. It's cool in here - sweater cool, enough to rescue my iPod, too hot to touch and ominously dark at the screen from charging in my car at lunchtime. The air in here is sleek and slithery; you don't know it's there until it stays.

When I walked outside at lunchtime, I could feel the halo of cold around my arms and legs, but only for a moment. The heat and sunshine muffled me like a thick down quilt. The air was physical. In the first minute, it felt comfortable and safe, a relief, like inside was outside and outside was in. I thought of how raw the air is in winter, and how much I would miss this warmth when it was gone. I tucked the air around me, under me. Like a heavy quilt, however, once I got a little warm inside it, I wanted to kick it off and breathe again. The air today is so thick, I found myself breathing with my mouth open, heaving my chest, thinking today would be a nice day for the alternating rescues of heated sand and cold salt water at the beach. Instead, I went back into the office.