Wear

The heat refuses to break. It pushes itself into your pores, it mauls your senses and makes every breath heavy. You seem to recall a time when your skin was not drenched in sweat, but it seems so distant, a time when you did not long for a change in season. The only thing to cool your fevered nerves are the countless margaritas you order, and by now the waitress looks at you with a familiar face.

We sat at the quiet bar and watched the Monday night patrons trickle in. East Village, they all came and shook our hand, made friends. The bulldog you brought greets them in return, with impropriety. Friendship 20 years in the making, you still remember the small town in California where she was born, when she tells your about her Nana, you remember those crinkled eyes and how they would smile; when she cries because he's really left, there's nothing uncomfortable in the air around it.

The years add up in your muscles, they build a life inside of you that can only be what it is with time. These people are built into your veins, these seasons wire themselves along your spine. Your joints ache more than they used to, your skin loses its tightness, but there is a quiet calm that rests on your shoulders that wasn't there before.

Perhaps the summer will pass at last. Perhaps another year won't be the end at all.