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Random prompt, no time limit: Heat

It’s gonna be hot.

I took a look at the weather report in the Sunday Express, but I didn’t need a newspaper to confirm what I already knew. The stickiness of the skin, the oppressive feel of the atmosphere closing in on me, even the warm air entering my lungs let me know that today will not be comfortable.

It’s gonna be hot.

And it isn’t yet five a.m.

I wasn’t expecting a great day, anyway. Jonah’s been gone a week, but I expect him to show up again. He comes back on a Sunday, sometimes after a week, sometimes after a month or more, but it’s always on a Sunday. I don’t know why that’s his day of choice, but it helps to know that the rest of the week is safe. Probably.

The kids are with their grandma, at some motel—I don’t know where—and they’ll have a good time, as always. They’ll swim in the pool and eat pizza, and Grandma will read to them or maybe sing until they fall asleep, happy and exhausted at the end of a Sunday visit. Early tomorrow, my phone will ring and if I answer, they’ll come home again with stories of where they were this time and how much they love their grandma. They don’t understand yet.

I almost look forward to these days. The anticipation is a tangible thing that has been part of my life for so long that I wouldn’t know how to exist without it any more. Whatever follows, the fabric of my being holds this pattern, circles and zigzags and lines with no beginning and no end.

The choice is mine; the choice was always mine: To stay, to leave, to try and change what is and has been for a very long time. The good times are so good! How can I think of losing what is already in my grasp in exchange for an unpredictable future? Every Sunday I read the early newspaper and consider my options, but the choice has already been made. I’m alone and awake and I’m still here, waiting.

It’s gonna be hot.

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