A Series of Unfortunate Decisions

Two minutes.

Two. Fucking. Minutes.

That's how long it took me to realize that my fancy-schmancy 50-bucks-an-ounce waterproof sunscreen is, in fact, not sweatproof.

I can feel its pasty residue stick to my fingers as I wipe away yet another sweat mustache. The itchiness above my upper lip is clear: soon I will look like the victim of a freaky waxing accident.

"Are we ever getting there?" I stare at my partner's inhumanly dry back as he barely moves forward through the crowd.

Don't all these people have anything better to do than harass me with their body heat?

"What do you mean? We are here." His white linen shirt creases slightly around his shoulders as he shrugs.

"Oh, nonononono! We are inside a fucking oven made of asphalt and... morons! — I push my elbows outwards to try and stop the constant people-bumping. — We should be in a reception hall with AC."

"Uhm, what?" With an "innocent" chuckle, he turns towards me, but his eyes scatter, tracing every air particle away from me.

I muster the courage to step closer to his body heat and fix my gaze on his face, so tall against the scorching sky. Bright pain fills my eyes with tears.

"You said this thing would be in a private pavilion." The words leave my mouth slowly, stealing whatever moisture was left inside. By the end of the sentence, I'm left chewing on sand.

"Yeah, and what is that?" He points at a pathetic toddler-sized excuse for a party tent, barely covering a table of sweating bottles and paper mugs.

"It's a fucking useless gazebo and a table of boiling lemonade!"

"Come on! Don't be so melodramatic." His cheeks flame up as he looks around, trying to figure out if people heard us.

"You are un-fucking-believable! You know I can't bear the heat; you know how easily I burn! Why would you drag me here?" My hands start shaking.

"I didn't drag you; I asked if you wanted to come with me." The red is now extending from his cheeks to his ears.

"You should have told me it was outside!" I try to unclench my fists, but they're not responding.

"I sent you the event's details today."

Is he mocking me?

"We live together, for fuck sake! You talk, you don't send stuff!" I think the heat melted the nerve terminations in my hands, cause they start flailing around and gesturing air quotes against my will.

"But you were in the shower; I didn't..." He tries to talk over me.

"Besides, you could have noticed that I didn't read it when I wore a black dress!" My arms sway, pointing at the black cocktail dress that is absorbing every ray of sun in the universe and wrapping it around my overheating body.

That's right! How could you let me wear a fucking long black dress outside in this sun? Don't you love me?

"But you only have black clothes." He whines in his whiny voice, the whiner! And that is so not true!

"I happen to own a white shirt!" Didn't see that one coming, huh?

"It's a pajama shirt with pink hearts; you wouldn't be caught dead in it." He massages his brow in what is clearly a pose to annoy me.

Don't you get all smug on me!

"I would have worn it ironically!" My voice is now a low growl, barely escaping through my serrated teeth.

"Sure." I can feel him close up.

There will be no more talking, no more listening, no more reasoning.

That's it, I'm done. I'm fucking done.

"I'm going to my mother's." Unless you want to go somewhere fresh together, since I'm all dolled up anyway. Just say something to stop me. Please...

"I'll see you later." He freezes me out, of course.

Always freezing me out.

If only he did it physically, I would never leave his side.

"Maybe." I try to convey as little emotion as possible.

Two can play the freezing game, Mr. I-care-about-stupid-office-politics-more-than-I-care-about-my-wife's-wellbeing.

I push my way out of the sweaty crowd, towards the park's gate. Open-toed shoes a-flopping.

Was it so hard to wait for me to be out of the shower and fucking talk?

Flop-flop-flop.

Or just notice what I'm wearing? I mean, I made myself all pretty; don't you even look at me that way anymore?

Flop-flop-flop.

"Don't be so melodramatic!" Easy for you to say: your clothes are frigging white linen. I bet you don't even remember what sweat feels like!

Flop-flop-flop.

And I would have so worn that pajama shirt! Like with the cute short black skirt. All "dark-lolita" style. And I would have bought a hat!

Flop-flop-flooshp.

"Flooshp?" God, my fucking brain is melting...

Why the hell do they have an office mixer outdoors in this weather? Why can't they make one indoors, like civilized people?

Flooshp-flooshp-flooshp.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" The fucking sole of my fucking sandal got loose!

Breathe.

The heat must have melted the glue.

Luckily, I'm like real-life MacGyver, and with a bit of effort and all the hairpins and elastics that were holding my hair up, I can patch together the shoe sole. It looks ridiculous, and it won't last long, but I only need it to get to the other side of the park.

Only a few more steps.

Floop-floop-floop.

God, Finally! The frigging gate!

I lean against the park's gate with my whole body, like a marathon runner against the finish line, waiting for its weight to give in...

...and it's stuck.

It's fucking stuck! What the hell is going on?

There is a wooden sign, just above the gate.

"Natural grass maintenance service... yadda yadda yadda... beware of the roaming... yadda yadda yadda... use the southern gate"

The southern gate?! Are you out of your fucking mind?

I'm now supposed to... what? Rub my sweaty butt-cheeks all the way back through the parking lot and the stupid office crowd, just to get to the other stupid gate?

"You gotta be kidding me!"

You know what? I don't care. Rules don't apply when it's a matter of survival.

I try to push and pull at the gate, rocking it with the whole of my small frame, but it is stuck in its defiance.

"Bastards!"

Why would they keep it closed when it is clear that there is nobody working here?

Oh, that's right!

There is no sound of instruments running, and no people in sight. In fact, I think it wouldn't be legal to have workers cut the grass in this heat. And the gate is not that tall...

And I was pretty good at obstacle running in high school...

Granted, that was a long time ago, but it's a physical thing, just like biking: "Breathe and let muscle memory take over".

Just walk backwards a little bit and breathe...

Here we go!

For a brief moment, I feel like flying. Movement brings wind up my skirt, relieving my thighs of their sweaty prison. They feel amazing... until they don't.

Until all I feel is the grating, rubbing burn of the wooden fence, and a familiar expression forming in my mouth.

Yes.

Grass always tastes greener on the other side of the fence.

Fuck.

Just like when I started biking again after all these years, in the "Faceplanting and getting unusual pains in my crotch area" way.

God, please, if there is any justice in this universe, don't let my teeth be broken.

With a mouth full of grass and blood, I slowly swipe my tongue over my front teeth.

Still there. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Eeeew, what is this stench?

I raise my eyes and find myself face to face with a pile of manure.

If I jumped any higher, I would have landed with my face in it. And in my book, a broken lip and scratched thighs beat a faceplant in cow shit.

Oh, God almighty, my whole paycheck is going to the local church this month. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

With the grace of a young deer on ice, I pull myself up and take a timid step forward, but the grass quickly gives way to leaves and sky as I'm pulled backwards.

It's beautiful, really, and fills me with adrenaline. It's electric, nope, electrifying... actually — electrocuting — from the vestigial bone up.

Fuck!

I check the foot that betrayed me. To my surprise, it's not the broken sandal.

Ok: no money to the church!

Up to the knee, my leg is swallowed by cow manure.

And you know how the adage goes?

Where there is cow manure, there is a cow.

Or, in this case, a whole herd of hairy, horned wild cows.

They're sleeping, though. Occupying what is probably the only shady spot in the whole park.

Selfish cows!

With shaky hands, I try to wipe as much of their product away from my leg as I can muster without puking, using every leaf and branch I can put my hands on. Then unclasp both sandals.

I am so not carrying poop-covered shoes!

"Take that, you stupid, moronic, useless, cheap shoes!" I feel like screaming as I swing them as far away from me as possible. I hated those shoes and their cheap-ass, painful design anyway.

Liberating, really.

For a second I feel like laughing. Today is all going to shit... Literally. But then, the hairy masses around me start moving.

Fuck.

"I am so sorry I woke you up," I try.

Not that I think cows speak English, but they might get some feeling from my intonation... no? Or was that only about kids?

Somebody woke up cranky.

"Good cows. Good cows." I try to walk backwards. But as I lock eyes with one of them, I remember something about looking animals in the eyes being perceived as a sign of aggression.

Are cows territorial? Why don't I know anything about cows?

Run!

All I can think of are people getting kebabbed by bulls' horns on documentaries about the Spanish corrida.

Just run!

Finally, my feet decide to listen and bolt away from the herd. I forget about the sweating and what is probably now severe dehydration until I jump a low fence, leaving the cow's enclosure.

As I turn around, I see that no cow followed me.

And — thinking about it — if they wanted to impale me, I would not have been able to outrun them. Could have saved myself some sweating and just slowly walked away instead.

Fuck.

My head starts spinning and pulsating wildly. It feels like my eyes melted down with the sweat and are dangling somewhere around my cheeks. I have to drink something, anything... possibly cold.

I hate my mother for giving me her stupid red-haired complexion without at least compensating me for it with the beautiful auburn locks.

I need help. A little more and I won't make it. Am I hallucinating, or is that...

...my savior?

In the form of an overly-confident, hormone-drunk, pimple-prone pubescent guy selling shaved ice.

Yes! A cone of ice is all I need now.

As I confidently march towards the shaved ice stand, I realize something scary. Scarier than horned cows or open-air office mixers.

I am a woman.

I am a woman, and the gods of fashion have long ago decided that showing off my curves was more important than carrying money, documents, or keys.

"A bag", you say?

Why would I encumber myself with a bag on such a hot day when I have a partner with perfectly functional pockets?

A partner far away, separated from me by murderous cows, treacherously tall gates, and seas of people...

...oh yeah, he's also mildly to moderately pissed off with me.

Should I just apologize to him, get the car keys, and drive to my mother's place with the car's AC on?

Wait... that actually sounds nice.

But then again... that would mean going back through the cows' herd, jumping the gate, finding him in a sea of people, and — worse of all — letting everyone see me in this shape.

Nope.

Not happening.

The only way out is all the way through!

And if the fashion gods decided that seeing my curves is worth more than money...

I shall use them as such.

"Hello... — quickly glance at his name tag — Randy, I would like a fresh minty cone".

"That'll be 3 euros." He says, with that typical shifty boy-adult-boy, hormonal voice.

I make a scene of patting my hips and butt for invisible pockets. Then, in the sultry, husky voice that a dry throat has given me, whisper:

"Oh no! I seem to have forgotten my wallet — I try to bat my eyelashes innocently, but the sun-melted mascara makes them stick to one another, resulting in some form of psycho-twitch — But since you already made it... will you have to trash it now? That would be such a waste! Wouldn't you rather, say, make someone very, very happy?"

"Mhmm, I'll just eat it myself, madame." He curls his nose.

That's when I realize that maybe I don't look all that sexy right now, with the melted makeup, the waxing-accident 'stache, and the bare feet still smelling of cow poop.

And that's without even considering the messy, wild hair, broken, swollen lip, and sweat all over.

But hey, I'm desperate for something fresh... and I can see he's desperate for something "warm".

And if teenagers didn't change much in the last 15 years, "breathing" is his only requirement.

I wipe away the sweaty hair and makeup from my face in one smooth double-palm maneuver and walk around the counter while making ferocious eye contact.

Imagine he's made of gently melting ice.

"Do you want to see a magic trick?" I whisper, just a breath away from his face.

He's holding that snow cone as a shield between us but dares not move. I think he's more frozen than the cone now.

Nobody around. Not a single witness, Randy.

Without breaking eye contact for a second, I slowly lower myself to the ground. And as my knees touch the grass below us, I whisper again:

"I can make... certain things... disappear." His hand, hovering just above my head, starts shaking, and I hear him gulp loudly.

He can barely manage to nod, mesmerized.

I slowly raise a hand, looking for his.

He closes his eyes in anticipation.

I grab his wrist tightly and make it work for me.

Ah, finally! The relief!

The marvellous icy relief of minty shaved ice dropping on my head, running down my neck and face.

Randy is still standing there with his eyes closed, as I bounce back on my feet and make a run for it.

I'm sure he'll scream something along the lines of "You have to pay for that!" once his blood is back in his brain and he realizes he got played. But it doesn't matter. It was a matter of life or death. And I doubt he'd recognize me on a normal day anyway.

Sucker!

The shaved ice melts too quickly, leaving me a sticky syrup mess. I don't want to show up at Mom's covered in syrup and cow poop...

Looksie what we've got there!

There is a small pond at the end of the park. A duck pond, currently duckless.

Not even the birds want to be out in this heat.

Dare I?

Fuck it! I dare!

With a juvenile shriek, I make a run for the pond.

The water is not cold, but it's refreshing enough, and my body welcomes the change in texture. Closing my eyes, I dive a little deeper and emerge a little further away, trying to get the syrup out of my hair. But something's not working.

Why is my hair still so sticky?

I open my eyes again to a sad realization.

Getting out of the water quicker than how I got in it doesn't save me. Nothing but a series of thorough showers could save me now.

Green algae, all over.

Fucking morons feeding ducks with bread, causing the whole pond's biome to change and fill with algae! Can't they leave it nice for other people who need a quick dip?

On top of that, I seem to have traded cow poop for duck poop...

Yay me!

The last meters to Mom's home feel like a full-blown walk of shame, as I drag my tired, scorched feet on the boiling pavement, leaving a trail of algae and whatnot behind.

"The lagoon creature!" A child's voice panics from behind the safety of a house's curtains.

"Don't look! Get away from the window!" Even the adults in the house sound worried.

As I ring the doorbell, I just hope Mom doesn't get a heart attack.

I had enough for one day.

"Mommy..." I break down crying when she opens the door.

"Not even the weirdest thing today". She says with her usual plombe, as a whiff of rotten yoghurt and god-knows-what alerts me to the appearance of my sister.

We cross eyes, two monsters with wild hair covered in unmentionable fluids. It's like looking in a horror-themed funhouse mirror.

Still, I feel the relief of understanding washing over me.

That, and Mom spraying us both with the garden hose.