Dying through every pore.
I am a sweater.
Not cable knit wool, but braids of salty liquid in stupid quantities. It’s a talent, a horrible horrible talent, and someday I will travel to Norway to have a word with my ancestor’s countrymen about my saline-exuberant heritage.
But for now all I can do is sit in the sauna that someone put in this black SUV under the Curacaoan sun in September, the hottest month in this demonically delicious climate. K’s yoga class should finish any minute now. The sweat drips off my nose, my chin, my ears.
Any second now she’ll come out that door. Drops fall from my jaw, my eyebrows, my forehead.
Of course, I could turn the car on and blast the air conditioning, but my stupid eco sensibilities opposed that when I arrived. It would only be a couple minutes, I should save the polar bears. Now I’m sweating enough to drown them, and I say drown, you charismatic Coke-selling bastards, drown!
It’s been too long to give in now. I will make it! Sweat gathers and leaks off the edges of my eyes like tears, but all I feel is scorched irritation growing to rage.
I feel like Edward Norton in the chemical burn scene in Fight Club. I try to go to my cave, or accept the warmth and enjoy the oven-baked relaxation of a free sauna. But the only movement in the car are the drops sliding down inside my shirt, whose synthetic fibers may melt at any moment.
I try to reach peaceful acceptance and enjoyment, but my vikram meditation falters and increasingly all I want to do is march into that yoga studio and punch the teacher in her fire chakra for keeping class so long.
Trying to take my mind off it, I take out my journal and try to take some notes about Curacao. It’s idle amusement as I watch my handwriting get messier, and my hand leaves wrinkles of water damage on the page. Is this dangerous? I hope the ambulance has A/C.
Am I delirious? The idea is faintly amusing. But I doubt it because I still want to go give that instructor a whack upside the lotus flower, but at least now I’m doing something. What was I doing? I don’t know.
K is knocking on the window. Is it delirium or salvation?
It’s her, and she didn’t finish her water bottle.