In the summer, heat was tremendously bleeting. Sweat was incredibly fleeting. Love had found no place at the county pools, and children stayed indoors not knowing what to do. There was nothing but the terror heart in men of my age, for everyone I knew had lost something good.
Everyone I knew got drunk more than me.
I got drunk alot.
One day was hot. The next day was like fall, with orchards chipping and cracking due to the constant change. And the AC seemed like an odd and callous friend, comforting one hour, ironic the next, as I would awake in a frost in the middle of July.
There were women I met. And I would know them, and walk. I would walk long distances to straighten out my head, so to say. I more often than not found hope in the girls that met me.
I always found, by dinner time, how useful they found me to be.
I was the greatest tool, in a way that got the lady's in good with someone else. I was a well tampered tampon of sorts, and the emotional discharge was enough to make anyone tend towards sleep.
Dreams have a way about them. And in some way it was better in Fall. I would dream on Fall. The days when couples complained about the sudden chill, about the lack of tanning, I would smile.
The AC came on, with cold and colder air outside. With fog boiling on the edge of the yard. I saw my breath to smile. No one finds it as comforting, I imagine, as me, to be surrounded with the feeling that everything just might ice over.
And of course, like all of the summer, I went to sleep.
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