Heatwave

You step out of your house and lock the door behind you. Your friend Lisa’s house isn’t very far; you could do with a bit of exercise today. You’ve been holed up in inside for far too long.

Steeling your nerves, you walk out from under the porch and into the open air. You squint, eyes already watering, partially blinded. The world in front of you seems to ripple, the only visible movement other than you. There aren’t any birds flying, likely for fear that the feathers will burn from their bodies.

A heavy silence pools around you, muffling the sound of your sneakers against the sidewalk. You haven’t even made it out of your cul-de-sac, and wetness is forming on your squinting face. You turn a corner, and the first drop of sweat drips into your eyes.

The silence is oppressive, as if a giant’s hand is cupped over your head and thickens the air. Still, you walk, though you’re only a quarter of the way down the block and your steps are already flagging.

You should have gotten a drink of water right before leaving; it’s been at least two hours since you last drank something.

A cicada begins buzzing in a nearby mesquite tree, the sound somehow increasing the heavy feeling in the air instead of breaking it. Soon, more cicadas join the grating chorus. They’re so loud that you can barely think over them.

You plod on, turning another corner. There is a single spot of shade on this street, under another of the mesquite trees that populate the yards in this neighborhood.  Lethargic relief compels you to jog to it.

You stand there under the shade for far longer than you should, reveling in the relative relief it gives you, and in the ability to open your eyes without being blinded. Sweat rolls down your face, back, and neck, and is soaking the hair tucked behind your ears. You feel disgusting.

Reluctantly, you step out of the shade and start walking again, more slowly than before. Just a few more streets, and you’ll make it to Lisa’s house.

The cicadas fade away, and you find that you wish that you would continue. Your thoughts are unreasonably hopeless. You’ll never feel right again. You have a sneaking desire to curl up on the fiery concrete and die.

Why did you ever think going outside was a good idea? You long for your air-conditioned car, and for icy lemonade, and for popsicles and ice packs and anything to stop your body from feeling like it’s being roasted in an oven.

Your mouth is as dry as the urban desert around you. Your skin is prickling, itchy in the heavy atmosphere. Saguaro cacti stand tall and proud in people’s yards, leering over you in their spiny glory.

You pass a house with a shriveled garden. Sunflowers, tomatoes and cilantro all stand brown and parched, leaves curled and crunchy.

You know exactly how they feel.

Looking around, you can see that nearly every house that you pass has a dead garden in it, any non-desert plants hopelessly brown. Even some cacti and ocotillos look sickly.

You cross a street. Not much farther.

You become convinced that all of your body water is migrating from your insides to your outsides. You look like you took a shower, then put your clothing directly on without drying off first. Your hands are clammy and have taken on a sheen in the unending brightness around you. The fine hairs on your arms are limp and bedraggled. A dark spot has appeared on your shirt, transforming the color from lavender to violet. Sweat traces a path down your back. You find yourself wishing that you had chosen sneakers that weren’t black.

You turn another corner. You can see Lisa’s house now, but it looks like it’s at the end of an eternal road. A headache attacks your left temple. You can feel your pulse chugging through your head, neck, arms, and heart, sluggishly moving your blood. You can barely breathe through your throat, so dry that it sticks to itself. Every breath hurts. Even the smart phone in your back pocket is aiding to your sensation of being fried. You wonder if it will even function after this, if the delicate mechanics within the device can survive being overheated.

Before long, your mind wanders to more fantastically strange things, colorful images filling your mind and partially blocking your sight. You stumble along, unsure of where you even are anymore. Blackness encroaches at the edges of your vision.

You hear footsteps steadily approaching from behind. Turning around, you see a black-clad man walking toward you. When he realizes that you’ve seen him, he increases his pace.

Whipping your head around, you start running, Lisa’s house still an eternity away. Ragged gasps tear your throat. Sweat drips from your nose.

The man is faster. Soon, he’s so close that you can feel his scalding breath on your neck. Your destination looms suddenly in front of you, and you become bathed in the shade of a carob tree. Without slowing, you run to the door and barge in—thankfully, it’s unlocked. You slam the door in the man’s face and lock it.

“Who’s there?” Lisa calls and enters the room, shock replacing fear in her face. “What happened to you?”

You open your mouth to respond, but your throat is too dry. You walk past her and into her kitchen. Strange rainbow shapes dance in front of your eyes. You stagger unevenly to the cabinet and retrieve a cup.

You turn the sink on full blast, unwilling to wait for the fridge water to fill for you. The water foams up and spills over the cup, its coolness filling you with incredible elation. You tip back your head and drink.

Your tongue and throat feel like they have been restored from death. You moan appreciatively and then fill your cup with ice water from the fridge.

It’s delicious.