What can YOU say in six sentences?
I started to write about a childhood memory that involved large Russian uncles in heavy overcoats and plump Romanian aunties bent over stoves as they baked bread and Purim pastries, but who can stand to write such stories in 104-degree heat?
I tried to write about my first orgasm and other nervous truths, but those prickly feelings melted and ran down my legs on this sweltering day, and I couldn't finish my thoughts.
I set out to tell you about a life in a colder clime than the one I live in now -- of snow and ice and swimming across a purely cold, blue-black Canadian lake. You would think that such memories would bring relief, but the day blew in under the door and around the window seals, dampening the curls around my temples and pasting the back of my shirt to my skin.
I stood in the open refrigerator doorway, eating a watermelon by digging my fingers into its wet, sweet flesh.
The ice maker clattered and cola-can sweat ran down the Coke Zero six-pack and the boiler-room hiss of backyard cicadas drowned out the words I was trying to find as if all language had fled to a distant, more temperate zone.