We sequester ourselves away from the heat like others do from the cold. The windows are shut, information pills the curtains drawn. The difference is we have all the lights off and sit immobilized in the direct line of the fan pushing around warm air. If this were a storm we could deal with it: put on a sweater. Drink tea. Sit under a wool blanket. If this were winter we wouldn’t hide from the weather – we would bundle up and go for a walk. As it is we are useless and there is nothing we can do about it. We try not to move. We barely talk. I don’t think the Mister has smiled in days and he sits around wilting like a sick willow tree. “I’m built to be marauding Icelandic shores,” he half-jokes. He’s right of course.


In bed we lay in pools of our own sweat. One hand briefly reaching out to the others – a quick rub of the back, a ruffling of hair. We hold hands for a fraction of a second. Too hot, we say. The baby makes whimpering noises as she sleeps beside us. I wonder if the heat is affecting her too. I say, “Let’s move to Scotland.”


I’m sitting in the rocking chair. Moira is in her usual napping position: wrapped tight against me. The fan rotates back and forth towards us, a brief moment of lukewarm before it moves away. The Mister walks by and pauses. We both heard it something – the sound of a breeze? He peeks out the curtain and runs to the back room, the bedroom, opening all the windows. He opens the door to the deck and I can just barely see the sky. “Tell me there is a storm coming,” I say quietly, being careful not to wake the 13lbs of heat napping on my chest. He smiles and walks outside.

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