heat wave

I’m a seal who thinks she’s escaped from the zoo.

I’m walking home from the public pool dripping wet, a dollar store towel wrapped around my waist like I’m sauntering down a boardwalk in the South of France. I’m a model walking a runway with no audience. I’m a seal who thinks she’s escaped from the zoo. Are you hot? Jealous? Afraid to wear flip flops in the city? Scrubbing your produce like you have COVID-era lockdown PTSD? It couldn’t be me. I’d risk it all to feel free.

Vacation is a mindset and I’m not ready to face reality. All I do is swim, scroll, make salad, see friends, and watch The Sopranos. I’m in bed by 8pm and up at 7. I sleep some time in between. I’m never well rested—not enough to send pitches, write about Paris, plan my Substack or vacuum the carpet. I’m not sure how much this has to do with sleep.

At the pool, I watch two teenaged boys splash each other for what feels like forever. They’re just standing there, smacking the surface, scooping gallons of chlorine into each other’s eyes. After a while they stop, wipe their faces, and wade over to the ladder, exiting the water without exchanging a word.