Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot
Yesterday I biked over to my therapist’s office through a mire of stagnant air and climbed the flight of stairs into his darkened waiting room. He wasn’t there — the boombox that normally trickled out classical music was silent. I checked my appointment card, I called and I waited. The thermos in the waiting room was out of water, and only the ice cream truck crawling by outside marked the passing of time. One bar of music accompanied the ripple of reflected light across the ceiling.