Sweat. Chapter 1.

A short story.

Hot days were the worst days. Of course it was always hot, more or less. Some days though, were truly hot. So hot he didn’t just feel it; he could could see it, hear it, smell it. Taste it even. Hellishly hot. Years back it hadn’t been quite so difficult, even on the hot days. At least in the early days he had the impishness of youth and the naivety of inexperience to kid himself with. How tough can this be, he’d spit. This is easy, he’d brag. Now he was just another pathetic alcoholic slowly crushed by the insigficance and totality of his existence. He didn’t even get the credit of being called a former drinker these days. The inglorious glory days barely even existed anymore, or at least it seemed. The stories weren’t even memories. The memories weren’t even dreams. What, exactly, was he recovering from now? Joy, perhaps. His mind drifted momentarily as sweat dripped down his temple. Fuck it was hot. Fuck he wanted a drink. He looked up across the garden. An over-sized sun blazed its aggressive blaze in the sky, the grass taunted him with a drunken dance and the stagnant air lazily pushed toward him the faint memories of late summer. Dark, familiar emotions began to circle around him. He swatted them away in a familiar summer al-fresco hand ritual usually resevered for country picnics. He was well versed in this routine now. This would pass, he told himself as he had so many times before. It always does. He reached down to start the lawnmower. First time. Never. Second time. Never. Third time. Rarely. Fourth time. Sometimes. Fifth time. It spluttered into life. It always did, eventually. He sighed his usual sigh and trudged a trudge reserved by most people for heaviest of rain showers. Perhaps he was was willing it to rain, to provide momentary respite from the the sun and the ceaseless whirr of the blades. The rain never came. He knew it wouldn’t. It never did.