They say it will reach 104 degrees in some areas of the Bay Area. For the past two days, self has been running the sprinklers and turning on the soaker hoses. Also, hand watering.
It was son’s first week of work at the company that hired him for the summer.
Last night, he was so tired he didn’t even eat dinner, just went straight to his room and slept.
This morning, self looks out the window, decides to read something before starting to write.
Ta-DA! The book she pulls from the shelf happens to be Beth Alvarado’s short story collection, Not a Matter of Love (New Rivers Press, 2006).
And what do you know, there’s a story in it about heat. The story is “Phoenix.” Here’s how it begins:
Not even June and it was a dog-dancing day. Asphalt sticky as gum. Gloria had heard it was so hot in Phoenix that rubber gaskets were melting, windshields falling out; some were simply shattering as the glass expanded from the heat. Birds were probably passing out in the trees. Electricity use spiking off the grids. If the cicadas would give it up for one minute, if traffic would come to a halt, she was sure she’d be able to hear the pumps sucking the artesian wells dry. Then Tucson would collapse into the hollow earth left behind. It was that hot, apocalyptically hot, hot enough to believe the sun could fry her and everyone else like so many grasshoppers in a cast-iron skillet.
Point of view belongs to Gloria, a mother who is picking up her daughter, Danika, after school. Complication appears in Paragraph 3:
In fact, Danika’s resemblance to her father scared the shit out of Gloria.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.