It is hot in New York.
Since yesterday, it has been hot. Last night, in Times Square, my ice cream ran before I could eat it, lines of vanilla and chocolate sprinkles sticky on the paper. Neon lights were off, electrical fuses blown from over worked air conditioners. The sun was long down, but the heat stayed.
It is hot in New York.
It escapes from everywhere, this heat, from every brick, every slab of sidewalk, the metal carts on every corner. Occasionally, there is heat on top of heat. A gust of wind at the corner of 52nd like a giant hairdryer, the mistake of walking over a subway vent in the street. This morning at the flower garden the gate wouldn’t close, the heat had inhabited the metal and someone shouted in a panic to leave it open, leave it open.
It is hot in New York.
I walk four blocks and stop for water twice, more expensive today, than last week. When I say this to the vendor, he gets defensive, uptight. Tells me how the price of ice is increasing, ten dollars, he says he pays for ice now. He takes me around the side of the newsstand, to see it, this expensive ice in blue and white bins. He waves his hands.
It is hot in New York.
Walking along 47th street my feet slide in flip flops. There is a Starbucks on every corner and every one is full, people sitting on the floor, their backs to the window, showing patches of their sweat. The one I am in is out of venti cups for iced drinks. There is a calm in the coolness. I get a seat, a coveted spot, only it is a trick, this window spot the sun finds. My finger sticks on the mouse pad.
People talk about the heat in a way that we talk about the weather at home. There are photos posted on Facebook of iPhones displaying temperatures of 102 and 111 and 108. I find this comforting, to know it is worth taking note of, this heat, to know it won’t always be like this.
In the post office, I meet a woman from England. She has lived here for many summers. She says it is early in the summer to be like this.
August, she says, now, August is hot in New York.
