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Ode to a hot August night

August 15, 2002 ~ 10:51 p.m.

A hot, sticky night in London.

I sit with a cold washcloth across my neck with the fans blowing.

I hear the dull, staccato roar of traffic outside, and people in high spirits yapping as they exit the pub just up the street.

I hear insects chirping just outside the windows, composing their tunes to the half-moon from the warm grass of the back gardens. Moths flutter in the light of the kitchen as I make myself a cup of tea.

A mixed smell of grass-trapped humidity, soft loamy soil and fragrant flowers floats in through the windows.

An empty beer can lies in the sink, tipped upside-down to dry, bound for the recyclables bag. Earlier in the evening, it had filled a tall glass, beckoning me with its cold, amber glow.

My skin shines with a dark golden color, the result of two straight days of lunch-hour sunbathing in the park.

The rabbit lies stretched out in his pen, too exhausted from the heat to bonk his stuffed animal cagemates.

Thoughts of this Saturday, of playing miniature golf and sunbathing on the beach at Hastings, cause me to think "thank God it's Friday."

The wife comments on how unbearably hot I am to sleep with�but is careful to add how luxurious my well-heated body is in the winter�and so I will be lulled to sleep by the sound of whirring electric fans in the living room.

Everywhere I look, every particle of air I sniff, every sound I hear and every comment being made tonight reminds me of summer.

And long, long may it last.

� M.E.M.

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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.

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