Monday, May 18, 2015


The mister and I have had an ongoing kerfuffle regarding A/C. He's pro. I'm like, "AC air smells odd. Muffled. Stale. Dead mall atrium." He's like, "Really? Dead mall-atrium? Must you always be so dramatic and precise?" 

"I don't like fake air forced through ducts a person can't clean," I say.  "Besides, 'ducts,' is a disturbing word. It is one of my least favorite words."  "And I love the sounds of summer. When all the windows are closed and the AC is on I feel removed from the entire world like a museum butterfly pinned on velvet."  

He face palms. "Sounds of summer?" He says, "You mean the early-morning bird racket? You mean the neighbor's forever lawnmower?" 

"No," I say,  "The sound of sunlight warming the pine needles and making them smell like the south of France. Like how I imagine the south of France smells."

We've reached an agreement. I stay outside, in the south of France, sweating, beads forming on the outside of my glass. He gazes out, inside, from Antarctica.

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