Sweltering Sky The humidity steamrolled in, leaving no brow undampened in its wake. As well, it hampered ambition; perched a sweaty arm on the rooftop just above my window. Ninety two degrees swollen to feel like a hundred and two. My tiny desktop fan, though an earnest fellow, did little more than escort in the suffocating air.
Arlo sprawled on the floor, panting recklessly. I lay near comatose on too hot sheets, rummaged my brain, thankful Arlo hadn't passed out from heat stroke while I had earlier run out to an appointment. A cool place... For the both of us... Natch. We should head to the Dog Bar aka Brooklyn Ale House, champion of four-legged barflies. Of course I would bike. Arlo setting the pace next to me. That's how we roll.
We took the best shaded streets, creeped on at snail's pace, took frequent water breaks. Not five minutes in, we're accosted by a self-righteous screecher. She clamors out of a sleek black SUV, You shouldn't be bicycling with your dog! I thanked her and continued on. You idiot, you're abusing that dog! It was one of those all too familiar situations we catch ourselves in. Two blocks later, my mind floods with all the things I should've said; put her in her place. But lo! She's actually looped around to scold me again. You idiot! I should call someone. That is just abusive. ABUSIVE. You're an idiot. IDIOT. THIS IS ABUSIVE. This time I'm armed with my reply: Well, do you want to give us a ride? You need to get off your bike. We're kinda going at a snail's pace. I think I know what my dog is capable of.
She's still screeching at us while we cruise halfway down the block. I'm wondering if she's going to drive around yet again to berate me some more, but we've already reached our destination, and the cool air inside awaits.