Emotions... strong feelings... absolute anythings.... They are trivial. Memories change. Opinions. Thoughts. Ideas. The attribution, reasons for existing matters and truths... Everything is just a part of one's current state. Love is one of these things. Love is a state that grabs us at the very core of our selves.

Humidity; I feel it along my sweaty forehead. It’s been too hot to go out. It’s been too hot to stay in. The water in the faucet runs warm, then cold. The water heater rests this season. I’ve never left on the fan all night long, but now it stands pointed directly at my face as I sleep.

Coward, I say to myself out loud. The room is quiet. Only small, ambient noises occupy the space. The wind leaks in from the window through the blinds. It rattles like a snake, but I am not alarmed, nor do I turn around. The breeze that creeps in is cold. This is novel. I haven’t felt such a cool breeze in weeks. I take off my shirt and feel the air hit my back. It feels slick and smooth against my back. I reach around to touch the skin. I can feel where my sweat has settled and collected dirt. The sticky, noxious feeling comes off onto my fingertips. Another shower is in order, but I won’t take a shower. I will take a bath and stare at the ceiling. I will examine the corners where daddy longlegs builds his home. I will examine the wall just above the showerhead where the paint is chipping from that shower I took without the fan.

The wind pushes harder through the window and the blinds rattle louder as though screaming for mercy. They kick up and the thick, heavy curtains lift. This is the sun’s chance, and it beams in hard, landing on my back. The burn is almost instant. It’s clear cut and I can feel exactly where it stops and starts. The discomfort causes me to put back on my shirt. It’s not unbearable. I don’t move from my place sitting up on the bed. I look to my right and see that no one is next to me. Melancholy sets in and I once again remember the shower that I have no intention of taking. 

Pomegranate, she answers. She wants me to spell it, but instead I ignore her words and smell it in her hair. It’s intoxicating, which is cliché. The wind whistles and kicks about between the houses. It sounds like what I imagine tornados must sound like. The way the movies have taught me they sound like, and I learn from them. I also learned from them that she wants this moment. She’s invited me in because she wants this moment. What this moment is may be in question, but I’m sure she has something in mind.

I haven’t listened to a word she’s said since the answer to my question. ‘What is that scent?’ I asked her. She smiles as I rest my nose in the nape of her neck and breathe in every ounce as though I am starving for air. She plays with my hair as she speaks. She says something more and I don’t hear. I search back for more lessons in my head, but all that comes to mind is coffee. Would you like to come in for coffee? – The best romantic cliché of all. But it isn’t evening. This isn’t in for coffee. She just wants my company. Reality takes me back. I have no guidelines. If she were a man, I’d know what to do. I’ve been there before. But here, on this white sofa, staring into strawberry blonde hair that smells like pomegranates… this is a foreign film.

 Flirt, he calls me. I take his hat from him and put it on my head. It’s a baseball cap. I never wear them. I adjust my hair and smile. I look cute in it. He wants it back, I can tell. He reaches; I duck. He grabs; I weave. The hat is mine, but I am not satisfied. He stands and takes the fan away. The fan was on the highest setting and still only made the room bearable to be in. The dry heat seeps in and that bad taste looms in my mouth. I become parched and the temperature rises incredibly.

I call to him, whining. Please, I cry. This is to no avail. He wants his hat. I want him. Secondarily, I want the fan returned. The humidity rises at that very moment. I shout at him to return my fan. He stands a ways away, outside of my line of sight, somewhere in the hallway. I lie sprawled out on the bed. I shout again and moan. He remains just far enough away, laughing. This is the moment where I give up. I give up once again. My moment has passed, if it were a moment at all. The roadmap was flawed. I had a feeling it would be. He comes back and sets down the fan. I remove the hat and place it slowly on his head. I’m close enough now. ‘You smell amazing. What is that?’ He says it’s nothing. ‘Even better. It’s just you.’

Pizza, I eat it again for breakfast. The sun hasn’t gotten to that critical point yet and I still have an hour left before hot food is out of the question. I burn my tongue with the first bite. I yell ‘god damn it’ to an empty kitchen and an even emptier apartment. I could cry, I could scream, I could be in dire straits and there would be no answer. I imagine myself falling on the pizza cutter. It would roll along my abdomen and reveal my innards. I would call out in agony. The only answer would be the rattling of the wind through the blinds. My consciousness would fade soon after that, blinking in and out when the sun bore through, under the wind propped curtains. My eyes would open in response. My hope would build. I’d dream of firefighters and EMT’s rushing in to save me. There would be nothing, but a blinding glare. This would be my final hour.

I finish off the last of my pizza and rinse off my plate. Knives and forks set smiling at me, sharp and germ filled on the left side of the sink.

Flexible, she says, giggling softly. I show her this accidently, as I reach behind myself to scratch my back. My arm moves across as though it were meant to go that far. She stares amazed, the way you do when you watch a cat or dog scratch an itch. The way you almost wish you could do that too, but of course you don’t really, because such an ability is nearly useless and mildly disturbing. She smiles, but stops watching. The disgust has set in.

I stop and take a drink of the pink lemonade she set out for us. She sliced real lemons and twisted them over the edge of the glasses the way they do in restaurants. She even topped them with mint leaves. Not only this, but she used bendy straws, the expensive kind. This is her bait. This is her lure for me: fancy lemonade on a hot day. I am near insult. I am near offense. But then I remember her apartment has air conditioning. And then I remember how close she lets me get. So I drink her lemonade. I let it run down my throat. She coos with joy, watching me take pleasure in her pink lemonade. She thinks she’s won, her bait successful. And I’ll let her think that as I lie naked on her bed, under the ceiling fan.

Doorbell goes off and I answer it. It’s him and he’s got on his hat. I want to wear it, but I need the fan. Today is a record breaker and I’m sweating through my tank. He looks at me and pauses with his mouth agape. I remember that I didn’t put on pants. I ask if he’d like me to change, if boxers aren’t enough. He says it’s fine. We sit in front of the fan. We don’t move. He takes off his hat.

She calls me. She’s excited. She wants me to visit. My memory loads a quick whiff of pomegranates to ruminate on. I tell her I’m busy. He looks at me like I’m crazy. He gets up to leave. I tell her I’ll call her back. I hang up. I grab his arm urgently. I can’t think of any movies. No lessons. Not one. He tells me to call her back. I tell him I won’t. I need to talk to him now. I need to tell him everything. I try to grab his hat. I get too close. I catch his scent. He feels me close. He backs up. You smell amazing. But first, ‘I need to tell you something….’ And this is the most important part.