He comes up to me, takes a good long look at me.
"What are you doing?" I ask him, annoyed.
"Just checking the humidity," he says, "before I have to go outside."
***
95 Degrees Fahrenheit. This is the threshold - 95 degrees Fahrenheit (35 Celsius to my slim European readership) - where I am forced to shave my legs. Jeans will not cut it today. Maxi skirts will only frustrate me. Shorts will have to do. And in order to go out in public and buy some groceries on a 95 degree Fahrenheit day, I know what I must do.
This is Kansas in June. (No scratch that, this is Missouri in June... I forget even my driver's license says I live on the Missouri side now.) There is no ocean or great lake here. We are severely landlocked: the cool air of mountain breezes 10 hours to the west, the warm surf of Lake Michigan 8 hours to the east, nary a sea within 1500 miles (or 2+ days' drive) in any and every direction.
As far as the eye can see, scorched and spotted grass, lazy trees, hills pushing us closer to a baking sun.
***
I turn and look to the mirror. My hair tells the tale of a Midwestern summer. A kinky curl peeks out at my temple.
We are all so thirsty. We are in drought.
And my tongue is fuzzy and parched, wishing for just one moment it could taste the cool blue of the Sea.
What is it like where you are? Forest fires, severe weather, or sink hole?
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