On Sweat

The rain arrives at last, a great loud torrent, it beats the dusty land. The lilac leaves had begun to wilt, people's eyes looked glazed over by the heat. The rain arrives, but the tropical heat remains. The sun sets in fire, in tangerine, but the forecast says floods are yet to come. I had to leave the water, at last, the rain drops pelted the waves so I could not keep my eyes open, and then there was that bit about being in water during lightning. I can't remember what the thing was.

My neighbor across the street returns. He sits on the balcony and gazes into nothing. They light the apartment in a green glow. Perhaps vacation is over.

The only secret to success is working like mad and fighting like hell. After my shift, my body is exhausted, I nap, I sweat, I try to recover before another day begins again. The curse of the working class, to which I apparently aspired. There is no success to be had. But on our way home from the bar the other night we dove into the channel, swam quietly through dark, cool waters as the party continued in the old factory on the other shore. We considered crossing, stepping out naked and joining the party. It was warm enough. Who would have noticed? Instead I stood on the subway with dripping hair and stained lips. But I was happy.

Summer sinks in, despite my toil, despite my inability to squeeze the minutes out of each day, it reaches in to where I can not escape and swathes me in sticky, warm air. Lines of varying color begin to form on my skin. A swimsuit lies packed in my everyday bag.

We cannot think of our mortality, always.