It is hot beyond words here, the sweltering-city kind of heat. The streets radiate fire, and the sun throws it right back down again, like it’s casting bolts of heat, pelting endless blankets of scorching air. Cities are the worst places to be in hot weather. I miss my pool. I miss the shaded sections of my backyard. I miss sitting under a tree and stretching out in the shade and reading a book and feeling the breezes from the nearby ocean drifting by. I miss the ocean. I miss throwing tennis balls to my dog as she fetches them in the waves. I miss my dog. June was a temptress, a tantalizing geisha with a come-hither wave and a dance and a sway of the hips. But July, with this heat, is her cruel stepmother. On a particularly hot Saturday morning, I stay inside where it’s cool. I Skype with Kate. She reviews several outstanding estate matters with me. Things about accounts and money and time periods when I can access certain funds. Then she takes off her glasses, and it’s strange, this all-too-familiar gesture of hers viewed through a computer screen.
