This air demands your breath. You emerge into the sticky thickness, and it surrounds you, the temptation of a lover you know is bad for you. But you drink it in anyway – the soppy hang of it – and feel moisture gather on the small of your back, pool behind your knees. You sit, elbows propped against the cushion behind you and peruse the view. A vast expanse of hazy green, glaring maroon and white marble that blazes in the sun. You are a lizard, this rooftop your heat rock, and your mind is a tornado of memories as you order smoky drinks that swelter on the table.
The clouds are blue-grey boulders in the sky, and they lumber across your view. This isn’t happening, this deadline you approach like a runner at the end of a long race. This view is the beginning of you, these granite monuments that sparkle under Hollywood lights. You count ten and think that’s absurd; the decade was like the breeze, ephemeral. Humidity is home to you, that soggy embrace that ignites your nerves, reminds you of the core of being, living. You chased it without knowing what it was, but finding it was like crawling into your bed at the of a marathon.
East was a dream, a place you knew you were made for. You pull your sticky skirt off your legs and watch white hot planes sparkle in the clouds and descend through a skyscraper-free landscape. Your plane will have four wheels, but your journey will feel like flying. The turbulence of leaving a home you chose.