Heatwave

By Conor Lynch

A heatwave can be defined in many ways depending on where it occurs. In essence, if the temperature rises above normal for a certain period of days this is considered a heatwave.

She classed it a heatwave as it was the third day in a row when the fan she had borrowed from her sister stopped doing what it should. Right in the middle of the afternoon.

The apartment was airless. The heat rose from the street like a spirit wangling its way up and teasing through the stairways. She turned back from her balcony in disgust. The novelty of the unexpected weather eaten away by the lack of sleep and remorseless discomfort. It had hit with little warning on the Monday and now on Thursday evening, it was unbearable. She pinched her brow with her thumb and forefinger. The skin, dry, despite copious amounts of water, gulped from early morning. She pictured herself as a camel.

She wondered what he was doing now.

After reading an article on athletes who need to recover quickly, she decided an ice bath would help cool her. She slipped the dressing gown from her shoulder. It fell gracefully. As calm as mist rolling in from the sea, to reveal an alabaster shoulder blade that would do justice to any roman statue. What was she to do? Jump in straight or edge herself in gradually? Despite being alone, she giggled at herself like a child as she placed a toe into the floating blocks tentatively and eventually flattened her foot on to the bath surface. All the while her two hands formed fists against each other.

The gasp that took her breath away, didn’t even allow her to scream, “Jesus!” as her mind thought the name in vain. She stepped over the side and with two feet stationary on the surface she was sure that all circulation had stopped and she would die standing up. Like Lott’s wife.

Once she realised she could actually move, she endured more torture by lowering into a squat until her bottom touched the water. She gasped and panted like someone who was burning rather than freezing as her arms rested on the bath side, almost willing her to stop this insanity and get the hell back up as quickly as possible.

He always said she had great mental willpower and she remembered this as she willed herself to stay down and acclimatise. It would be fine in a minute. Like when you went to the beach. The first few seconds would always be the hardest and then it would actually be warm. To distract herself, she wondered how long the athletes stayed in? What good could this do anyone’s body? It was hell without the heat. No matter how she twisted or tried to get comfortable, she couldn’t. It was pointless. However hot it was outside; this was just uncomfortable and in a crazed way she suddenly missed the heat. Nearly more than she missed him.

Later, as she sat on the balcony, she noticed how there was nobody walking dogs. Even the dogs had, had enough. The street below only had a sheen that reflected the heat and she could see the waves of centigrade as they wafted like a mirage in the distance.

The evening brought a light breeze, some remorse but even still, the heat remained.

A man with a briefcase walked by. Slowly. He had a moustache and a pot belly. His hair was untidily long and he swung the briefcase in momentum to shorten his walk home from what she presumed was the office.

Did he have a wife to go home to? Maybe she had a light salad ready for their meal and they would share a glass of wine. Although he looked as if he would prefer beer.

He preferred wine. And she remembered how they would often share a bottle in this very space. Laughing, teasing, holding hands.

It seemed distant now. That time. Yet...

The clock on the oven pinged and she took out a pasta dish laced with chili. The girl in the delicatessen said it lowers the temperature in the heat. She wasn’t sure. Perhaps you forgot how hot it was outside as you were dealing with the immediate inferno in your mouth.

He didn’t like pasta. That was okay. We all had our different likes and dislikes and apart from this they had been well suited. So it seemed like a reasonable request from one person to another, who were supposedly a couple. Surely it didn’t have to end?

She sipped some more wine and made her way back to the balcony with her meal. The street was empty now. Briefcase man was probably on his third beer telling his wife about the girl in accounts who wouldn’t approve the invoice. Who needed that hassle in this heat? The wife probably wasn’t listening but wondering would her hairdresser be free that Friday, she had people coming over Friday evening.

That would have been nice. For them.

She watered some plants on her balcony. They would have cried for water but they had no tears.

She had no tears either. He had taken them with him.

The calm of the evening comforted her. Tiny flies buzzed about, attracted to the light from her cigarette. The breeze had died down and a clammy air stifled her breath.

She threw her legs to the ground and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. One they had brought back from Greece.

She made her way to bed. Turning at the doorway of the bedroom, she took one last look back at the empty apartment and the balcony beyond. The long night in its infancy, the heat enduring.

No matter how she tried, there was no escape.

🩷🩷🩷

Conor Lynch is an Irish writer living in Dublin. He has been published in the Irish Independent, Woman’s Way and Irelands Own. He has also self-published five novels. However, his love for the short story will always win through. www.conorlynch.weebly.com