They lay beneath a tree, slippery with their own sweat. The folds at their elbows and knees were endless oceans on which entire naval battles raged, pirates captured ships and ecosystems flourished unseen. Cicadas screamed as their wings caught fire while lethargy robbed sentences of at least one essential — verb, noun, or predicate — down below. It was hot.
The public pool was a scant twenty meters away.
They continued to lay still as their skin sloughed off their bones.
He turned to her. “You feel that?”
“That breeze that just came in,” he grunted, “feels good.”
She could swear there was no cold air. Lying very still, she tried to pick up a hint of the cool breeze he had perceived but found the park vacant of reprieve. It was only when she concentrated that she finally sensed it: the feel of devil’s breath beating at her skin was colder all of a sudden. Surely, this wasn’t her imagination: if he could feel it, she could feel it too.
“You’re right, I think it’s cooling down,” she replied, fully articulating her words for the first time that afternoon while sweat continued to come off her face in sheets. “It’s actually not that hot. I don’t know why I said that.”
They were at a friend’s house for a get-together, the type of friend whose profile picture was eighteen pixels large and from 2007; who looked you in the eye when he asked how you were doing but would never call you; the type of friend who threw really good parties. The music was just the right amount of drum and beat. Red plastic cups abounded, granting drinkers immunity from having to own up to what they were sipping: a gracious abeyance for the guests who weren’t drinking malt whiskey or imported liqueur or Brooklyn’s finest micro-brewed whatever. The partiers were beautiful, and smiling; the men were talking and the women were talking about things other than men. The cool breeze filtered in through open windows below twinkling lights in a perfect display of summertime sweetness. She was happy.
“This party sucks,” he said to her.
“No seriously, this place is the worst. It’s ridiculously hot in here and everyone is stupid. No one has a goddamn thing to say,” he said.
She looked around. It was true that they weren’t all very well dressed. There was too much laughing, certainly, for the number of funny things going on. And was that Top 40s on the radio? God, had she really not noticed this before? These people were so incredibly annoying. Everyone was just standing around, shouting over each other just to hear themselves speak, screaming because they loved themselves so goddamned much. They were all so young, and empty, and stupid.
They were walking through their summer park, though time had conspired to give it a new face in reds and yellows. The not-so-blistering heat had given way to really-not-that-cold weather. Time looked good on them.
“My mom wants you to come for dinner,” she said.
“My mom, she wants you to come for dinner sometime. This weekend, actually.”
“Your mother knows about me?” he sounded vaguely annoyed.
“Well … Yeah, I mean, why wouldn’t she?”
“Are you seriously asking me that? It’s not like we’re a thing or anything.”
It was her turn to say, “What?”
“Dude, you’re really cool, but we’ve only been, you know, hanging out. This was never a thing,” he said.
She thought back to the days beneath the trees and the parties and the time — all the time spent. I guess I misunderstood, she thought. I’m always the one who mistakes hot for cold and boredom for fun and love — love for just hanging out.
“No, totally,” she answered, numb. “My mom just doesn’t get how things are nowadays.”
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