Heat

Sidewalk hot, you could fry an egg. Arizona summer heat, Phoenix roast factory. Sweat pouring off my brow like Noah's flood. Sky, light turquoise, tweaked into a sun radiant reflective furnace. Shimmering down alleyways in unison with overburdened air conditioners. Mirage pools in the distance ethereal, wavering on blistering roads. Sounds are deadened by oppressive scorching. Dogs panting with white flecks of drool, sizzling on asphalt. Blow dryer wind chafing my skin, hard walking in this dry heat sauna, cotton ball mouth and a raging thirst. An old man sitting on a weather-beaten porch spits ocher tobacco waste on a dead lawn. Penetrating blue eyes nestled in a wrinkled brow, he whistles a forgotten tune in the oppressive heat. "Hey, you!" he calls to me, "get in the shade before you fry your brains." He's holding a cold lemonade, dewdrop dribbling on a crystal glass. Ice jingling against the sides in a mesmerizing way. I lick my chapped lips, he pours me a cold one. We wait on that shaded porch, talking about life, love, and the way it goes. As that big red ball starts to creep into the cradle of night.