In the elevator, before ten am, on the way to the fourth floor, one of the maintenance workers looks at me and says, waving a sheet of paper in front of his face, “It’s half hot.” I agree. At the register, a woman in a white hat greets me with, “Hello, good afternoon, it’s hot, isn’t it?” as if it all one word, and I quickly offer, “Si.” In the cab, the driver is mad. He complains the whole twenty minutes about the traffic and the heat. And, I encourage him in his tirade. “Yes,” I say into the no more than eighty-degree sky.
shewhodaresnothing 