“

I guided my way to the front door after hearing Evie next door telling her family they’d overloaded their circuits. Outside, everything was black. “It’s the whole block!” I shouted as people came out into the street.

“

I’d been waiting on line at the souvlaki cart on 31st Ave in Astoria, Queens for something like fifteen minutes. It was over ninety degrees out. Everyone was sweating: the three guys inside the food truck had wet rags draped over the back of their necks.

“

“Can I just have some ice?” I asked the clerk hawking beers at one of the free Prospect Park concerts on a day when even the evening shade didn’t abate the humidity. He resisted: “You can’t put it in your drink,” he said. “It’s gross. We’re not allowed to give it out.” Once I informed him that my only intention was to apply it directly to my face and neck-skin, he relented.

“

In the summer in the small Southern California town where I grew up, it’s 115 degrees on a good day – and the most bristling, face-melting day I can remember exploded the thermometer at 123.