It's been a hot, sticky couple of days here in New York. Last night, when I got back to my apartment shortly before 2 a.m., it was 83 degrees out. I went up to my roof to look at the skyline, and most downtown buildings were obscured by haze. Today, it reached 99 degrees. It was so ridiculous, I considered going to see Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo because there would be air conditioning. March of the Penguins would have been pure porn.
Instead, I read about college football, wrote an incoherent ramble about the Gators, and savored the knowledge that fall is just around the corner.
Then I went to run an errand, and as I left my apartment, the skies opened up with a wonderful deluge of ... well, warm rain. I was hoping for the kind of icy, refreshing downpour you get in a real thunderstorm, the kind that reminds you that the rain fell a long way. But this was just fine. I could feel the heat from the sidewalk radiating up around my knees while the rest of my body was cooler. On the way back, it rained even harder, and I walked until I was soaked.
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2 comments:
This post should have been titled "After the Rain," a la Nelson.
I hate it when you're right. Where's Gunnar when you need him?
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