Quente.

It is 8:06pm, and I'm wearing thin plaid pajama boxers and zero sleeves. My window is wide open, the fan is set on the highest, most violent setting, and yet here am I, generously glazed in a salty film, soaking through all the layers I have not. The photographs that normally march in ordered lines on my wall curl and peel haphazardly off their blighted blue background. The really unlucky ones lie in a defeated, mangled heap. My plastic green cup of water fresh from the fridge has instantly boiled to lukewarm. The box of chocolate treats I quietly snuck upstairs has morphed into one huge rectangular pool of liquid brown. My bangs and baby hairs cling frantically to my damp forehead. My cheek tickles as a rogue drop escapes, winding a rivulet. My red-framed glasses slide down the slippery bridge of my freckled nose every too many seconds. Pushing them back into position is an effort more futile than shoveling snow in a blizzard. Snow. Ah, lovely, lovely snow...




It's hot.