Relief at Last

I hate being in public. In public I have to be covered up. I sweat, and cuss, and flap away wasps.

I see people walking about in shorts or sundresses and I curse them, too. How are they smiling? Where are the sweat stains and glistening faces - don't they have glands? By rights I should be surrounded by acres of sunburnt skin and a constant sussuration of disgruntled muttering. If there was any good in the world, it would provide a pleasant, cooling breeze.

But no.

All these people are insane.

Don't they know the planet is on fire? What are they so fucking happy about?

The first thing I do when I get home, and am concealed from the eyes of, well, everyone, is peel off my clothes.

I lie on my bed under my fan, spreadeagled like a wounded starfish.

The ceiling fan groans, and I think it might fly off and land on me, chopping me into little pieces. So how is it that it seems to be not moving any air around at all?

Anyway, I am still too hot to move. Even if it did finally creak free of its tether and land on me, there's nothing I can do to avert the disaster. It might not be so bad to be dead. At least I'd be cold.

Eventually, I can't stand it any longer. I drag my ridiculous soggy body to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then I open the freezer and stand in front of it. I take an ice cream. And then another. I stay there long enough that I can see the contents begin to thaw, but my bottom still feels like a swamp. Regretfully, I shut the door, and take cold drinks from the fridge. I've been glugging away all day to little effcct besides needing to go to the bathroom a lot. But at least it make me feel like I am doing something.

Now I sip one and press the other against my forehead, wrists, neck and other, you know, bits. It does feel slightly better.

I steal the cooling mat from the dog lie on that. My own sweat sticks it to my skin, and in no time at all, it warms beneath me, matching the heat of my body.

I prowl around the house looking for more fans, better ones. Little ones do nothing. The neck one malfunctions and gets tangled in my hair. I know theres a really big one in the office space in the loft, so I venture up there and fetch that down.

Next, I wet towels, wring them out and cover myself with them, several fans posted like sentries around my body. Helpfully moving the warm air about the room, and doing bog-all to ease my discomfort.

Of course, after a while, the towels warm against my skin as well, so I peel them off. Then my underclothes. I am completely naked, but it is not enough.

I peel at my skin. Not the curling little white dead bits you get after sunbathing, ohno.

The entire meat suit has to go.

I stand in the shower and take it off in big long strips, colourfully layered with meat and fat. I hang these over the towel rail (which is, thankfully, not heated).

God alive, it feels good to get more undressed. The muscles, tendons, and ligaments go next. All that pesky warm blood finally flows away. Whose idea was it for us to have warm blood anyway? Stupid plan.

A smile fixed on my face at last, the shower is still running over my cold white bones.