I love August.
I do love summer. I do. I even miss the summer I worked in the bathing suit shop — next to 7-Eleven — the dressing rooms had florescent lighting and my twenty-one-year-old boss was pregnant. She threw up once. I asked her if she could still have sex. I was nineteen. We sent Santa Monica wives on their Hawaiian vacations and competed to win a personalized terry-cloth hoodie. I won. I was the tannest of the bunch.
This summer’s been different. Everyone seems to agree. New York rained and I lost every umbrella. It’s hot now. The hottest.
I tried to charm the Polish furniture salesman into giving me a mattress for eighty dollars today. Instead I found myself in a dressing room trying on a wool mini skirt and leather shorts that I couldn’t live without.
