I'm not a person to argue openly with the weather. It's pointless to dispute with someone who holds all the cards. Especially when those cards are marked with planets and stars, moons that pull the tides in like glowing celestial magnets, horizons to delineate where the sky's rule begins and ends, oceans, continents, and winds that crosshatch the atmosphere like Tenniel's forests. Especially when a god like Zeus rides at its brow, holding thunderbolts, bowls of rain, and quivers of lightning in the crook of this thick arm.
I just don't want to start a row. But still…I have to say…it really is too hot. The heat makes my ankles – never of a Balanchine wispiness – swell. It makes my hands puffy; and the scar on my left hand is especially visible, a livid reminder. My face is covered in a thin poultice of powder and sweat.
When I step outside I am immediately cloaked in a solution of thermal heat and humity – rising from the earth, pressed down by the clouds – as if a sweating valet had been waiting, ready to wrap it around me.
All I'm saying is, that if I'm to wear a cloak, I would rather it be my choice to reach for one.
On a day like today, I dream of standing in a downpour of melting crystals; that I am leaving footprints that are cold and deep. My face is pink and white, my lowered eyes slashes of kohl and charcoal. I imagine myself swathed in chic, hobbled in Paul Poiret's affectations.
On a day like today I dream that it is winter once more.
Will it be soon?