★★★★★ The bedroom was already hot at the moment of waking, and the kitchen trash had ripened overight. Melon guts, probably. Edges of buildings were flat against the white glare. The breeze could still be construed as cool, though the moving air was damp and heavy. Enough Citi Bikes were out in use that it was easy to jaywalk through the rack. A lawnmower raised the smell of cut grass from the not-exactly-public garden. There was nothing discouraging about walking out for lunch. No, more than that. The generous loveliness of the previous days was of course gone, but in its place was the compelling feeling of hanging on the brink. A limited-time offer. Sweat glands were not yet sweating; the heat still quickened the nerves, rather than stunning them. Elderly ladies carried umbrellas as parasols. The Freedom Tower stuck up over the Bowery, blue-hazed. Late in the day, tiny air-conditioning droplets blew overhead into the lowering sunlight, a private meteor shower.
Wednesday, June 18th, 2014
37 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?