It was 95 degrees in my apartment when I woke this morning. The heat had been so intense the day before that nighttime was insufficient to dissipate it—a kind of thermal solstice. It was like waking the morning after a long bender to discover that you're still drunk and the long road through the hangover hasn't even begun.

I showered to rinse off the sweat and made iced tea, first just a bowl and later a two-quart brew that I set to chill in the fridge for the afternoon. I walked down the hill for coffee, cooling in the sweetly damp corona of new light. The cafe was air conditioned, just barely. Already the sun poured through the plate window two stories tall that is the defining feature of the place, and which is left undraped in that honor.

By noon the temperature in the apartment had reached its nadir. The light through the window had hardened but the west side of the building was still shaded. I worked, paced against the day's turn to reach a stopping point before the apartment was directly lit.

By three, the pressure was palpable and intensifying. Shafts of white light seared the floor where the rays breached the seams of the blinds. I struggled to wrap up work, one hand typing, the other cupping a dewy glass of chilled iced tea. At four I left the chair a sticky, stinky heap and sprawled on the hot bed with no option but motionlessness. The air so heavy the fan could barely churn it.