Sweat

I wake up in darkness, bathed in my own sweat.

She rolls toward me in her sleep, her arm outstretched, reaching for mine and I pull away.

The thought of skin on skin is enough to make me get up.

I walk to the kitchen, turn on the light, but it won’t go on.

“Power is out,” she says from behind me, making me jump.

I turn and watch her walk to the bathroom, her hair messy, her face scrunched up from having just woke up.

She leaves the door open when she pees. A habit I find equally endearing and off-putting.

I open the fridge and wince against the rotting smell.

“How long has the power been out?” I ask.

“Who knows?” she responds.

I pull out our water pitcher, lukewarm at this point, and pour myself a glass.

I put the pitcher back in the fridge.

I’m about to drink when she says, “Thank you for asking me if I want a glass.”

I open the fridge to get out the pitcher.

“I don’t want one,” she says, “But it would be nice to be asked.”

I close the fridge.

I stare at her while I drink my glass of water.

She goes back to bed and I watch as she pulls the blanket over her body.

“You’re not hot?” I ask.

She doesn’t respond.

My phone dings and when I look at it, it tells me that I shouldn’t leave the house today. That it’s not even 6am and it’s already 90 degrees and will only get hotter.

12pm.

I go outside to have a cigarette.

My skin feels like it will melt off.

“How can you smoke in this heat?” she asks from the doorway.

I light my cigarette.

Take a drag.

And immediately feel like I am going to throw up.

I put the cigarette out and go back inside.

The air in the living room is stale.

“Should we close the windows?” I ask.

“We need air,” she responds.

“Hot air?” I ask.

“Hot air is better than no air,” she says.

“Should we go somewhere?” I ask.

“Where?” she responds.

“Somewhere with AC,” I say.

“Everywhere is closed,” she says.

“Everywhere?” I ask.

“Everywhere. It’s all over the news. Everywhere near us is closed because nothing is working,” she says, her words clipped, like she’s over enunciating every single thing because she thinks I’m an idiot.

“Let’s go for a drive,” I say.

She huffs in response.

“There’s AC in the car. We can drive to the beach,” I say.

I don’t say that if she doesn’t come with me, I’ll go without her. That I can’t stay in this stale room, with the hot air filling my lungs and my brain, and the rotten smell from the refrigerator permeating our entire apartment.

I don’t say that if I stay cramped in here with her for another second, I might throw myself out a window.

I don’t say that looking at her hurts my head. That everything she does is like nails on a chalkboard.

I don’t say that I wish she would just stay here and let me leave. Let me get away for a few hours. Maybe forever?

She is gazing out the window and I’m wondering what she’s thinking.

If she’s having similar thoughts.

I watch the sweat on her forehead make its way down her cheek.

I wait for her to wipe it away.

She doesn’t.

“Sure,” she says, “Let’s go to the beach.”

I watch as she slips on her sandals, grabs her sunglasses.

She walks to the door and turns to look at me.

“Well?” she asks.

I slip on my sandals, feeling sweat already starting to form beneath my feet.

I grab my sunglasses, the car keys.

We step outside and both simultaneously groan against the heat.

We rush into the car.

The seat burns my butt, and I scream when I touch the seatbelt.

“You knew it was going to be hot,” she says, using a towel to put on her own seatbelt.

I stare at her.

She notices and hands me the towel in silence.

I put on my seatbelt.

Start the car.

We begin to drive, and I turn on the AC, feeling a wave of relief as the not-quite cool air hits my face.

The streets are crowded.

Bumper to bumper traffic everywhere we turn.

I start to get on the freeway.

“Seriously?” she asks me, “We’re seriously getting on the freeway? Look at this mess!”

“How do you expect to get the beach without going on the freeway?” I ask, already merging into traffic. A traffic that is so built up and so long that I think we just might stay here forever. This is where we live now, I think. Right here on this freeway, in this traffic.

She huffs in her seat and folds her arms and looks out the window. She leans her forehead against the glass but immediately pulls away, a red splotch already blooming. I put my hand against my own window and pull it back against the searing heat.

We sit in traffic and listen to the hum of the AC.

She turns on the radio but it is nothing but news channels talking about the emergency heatwave, advising people to stay indoors.

“Everyone is going to the beach,” she says, “It will be packed.”

I don’t say anything.

I grit my teeth against her voice.

The AC sputters, making a pitiful whining noise and then it shuts off.

She tries fiddling with the knobs and accidentally turns on the heat.

“Turn it off,” I say.

“I’m trying!” she yells.

The heat gets hotter.

“Turn it off!!” I yell this time.

She hits my shoulder screaming, “DON’T YELL AT ME!”

I watch as she punches the car.

I can taste the heat.

I can feel my body pulsing, and my chest pounding and I wonder if I’m dying.

I watch as she continues to fiddle with the knobs, as she punches the car. She tries to roll the window down, but the controls aren’t working.

I look to my left and see a couple in the next car.

They’re both screaming at each other, veins popping in their necks.

I look over at her.

My girl.

My screaming, punching, tantrum girl.

Sweat burns my eyes.

We have barely moved on this freeway.

On this wall to wall car of a freeway.

And something in me breaks.

And I open the door and get out of the car, and start to walk back toward the apartment. I light a cigarette and inhale the burning, all the burning into my lungs. I ignore her screaming, and continue to walk, feeling the sweat drip down my back.