The chores get left, I don't feel like lunch, my pen sits in the dip between pristine notebook pages and all I can think about is how soon can I put my feet into the sea. The street is deserted at lunch time and my headache pulls me into a dreamy siesta.
The weather has dictated my week, given me few real choices and obliterated thoughts from my head. Caged by the heatwave, I have found myself retreating from what I cannot change. It's been a slow week.
Voices spill into the tall purple shadows of the street as evening falls, voices that I can't match up with owners. Parents sit on steps, looking out into the dark as their kids scoot down the hill in the whooping freedom of staying up late on a school night.
I close my eyes and drift off to sleep in the singsong spell of counting rhymes.