My Cardboard Balcony

Indian Summer by Belinda Roddie The heat is draining me. It pulls the fog out of my pores, turns it into clouds hovering over my head. I am wrung out like the damp bandana on a pedestrian's brow, as she carries her boa constrictor like an unwelcome scarf across her shoulders. I walk into the bookstore, where it's air-conditioned, and order something lukewarm from the café. My body wants to rebel, but I don't let it. Outside, the light throbs against the windows. The glass glows like the pulse of angels. Their wings beat against an oppressive blue sky.

"Are you being serious?" "Of course I am," Mack replied, rolling her eyes amid the endless smoke erupting from her pipe. "I'm always serious. Even when I'm joking, I expect you to take me seriously. Jokes take time, and tremendous effort, to create. Timing and tone are everything. So I'd be sorely offended if you saw me as anything shy of serious at all." Alan simply stared. He could feel his brain being slowly cooked in his skull.