I start to hyperventilate in discomfort. I'm nauseated.
David looks at me. "Love, are you okay?"
I burst into tears. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I wail.
"Oh love, it's okay."
"It's not, it really isn't. I'm SO hot. It's so fucking humid. Meaghan and Ron are WRONG. S...s...summer is n..not the b...b....best season!"
David attempts to hug me. I recoil.
"Don't!! DON'T!! I'm so sweaty. I'm disgusting!"
"You're not disgusting."
"I AM!!!"
"Do you want to stay home?"
"YES!!!"
I am supposed to go with David to his Step-Mom's house to help him sort through his father's stuff. I am supposed to have dinner with David and his son. I am supposed to be a rational and functioning member of society.
I'm in the midst of a humidity tantrum.
"It's okay, you can stay home. You don't have to come."
"I... don't?" I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. David gives me a tissue and I blow.
"You don't."
"I w...wanted to," I sob apologetically. "I wanted to go..."
"I know you did. But you don't have to."
"I'm so sweaty."
"I know."
I start struggling with the buttons of my dress. I'm a rabbit caught in a cotton pastel plaid trap. I start to panic.
"Whoa... it's okay." David hold me still and helps me get my arms out of the dress and undoes my brassiere.
"Th...thank you." I'm still crying.
"Go change and I'll get you the cool pack from the freezer."
Sniffling, I stumble up the stairs, dropping my slip as I go. I find a cotton nightie and slip it over my disgustingly moist body.
David meets me in the living room. The window air conditioner is on full blast. He helps me drape a cool pack around my neck. He cracks open a sparkling water and sets it on a tray on the ottoman.
"Okay. Here's your phone and your e-reader. You can plant yourself here until your temperature has come down."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. And you can always have a cold shower."
I burst into tears again. "I already DID!!! After I exercised, I h...h... had a cold shower!! And the minute I got out, I was already swea...sweating! I even stood in front of the fan in our room to dry the sweat before putting my dress on but it didn't help, so I put powder everywhere and now I'm ca...caked in wet baby powder... and I'm STILL sweaty!!!"
David bites his lip. "I'm sorry... I know it's not funny..."
"I know I'm ridiculous! I know that!!!"
David just puts his arm around me. "It's okay. This is a day for me anyway. You don't need to be there to go through Dad's stuff with me..."
I sob louder. "I'm so sorry!"
"No, it's okay. It really is. You take the afternoon and relax. Read. Watch some trash t.v. and cool down. I'll see you tonight."
30 minutes later I have managed to come back to my senses. I go upstairs to get dressed. Pulling my nightie off, I notice some dirt on my stomach. How could I have possibly gotten dirt on my...?
I look closer.
It's not dirt.
It's a moth.
Earlier, when I'd stood in front of the fan in a vain attempt to dry the post-shower sweat, a dead moth had been blown against my stomach. The sweat from my body allowed that dead moth to stick to me - a Southern Ontario tattoo, so to speak.
I let out a snort of laughter. And then I head downstairs where the AC is blasting and my e-reader is packed with downloaded library books. I'm aiming to immerse myself in delicious steampunk vampire/werewolf smut and get the good kind of moist.
Yes summer, you and your fucking humidex may have momentarily brought me to an emotional/physical low, but I'm hydrated now and I have enough media to keep me occupied until the humidity breaks. Just two more months and it will be autumn. And I will dance at your funeral summer. I will dance.
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