Heat

The heat. What he wouldn’t give to never feel the heat again. He couldn’t think, couldn’t reason, because of this goddamn heat. He felt sick, exhausted, and still he had to go on, because where else could he go? He felt the sun sting his feet. Wasn’t he completely in the shadow, his knees pulled up, like a sleeping child, wishing for the sun to die, to leave him alone finally? How could it find him here still? Why was the world so full of fucking pain and so little motherfucking release? Silently, he wept. This would be his end. Here, at the end of the world. Had he not fought, struggled, for something more? Was he not deservant of a throne, a warriors death, the halls of Valhalla?

‘Honey? Honey! Honey?’ He heard the cries of a woman, perhaps his mother, perhaps Mary Magdalene, or Euridyce, wasn’t that the one who turned to salt? What he would give right now to become a salt pillar. Maybe just until after the sun died. Was that too much to give? Just a few thousand years, why not. ‘Honey! Honey? What - What the fuck are you doing on the ground?’ That didn’t really sound like Euridicy. Euridice? Euridicious. ‘Honey. Could you get up please. We’re going to the museum, I don’t wanna miss our time slot’. I slowly extended my now sore legs, stretched as hard as I could, slowly (but not too slow for my wife to notice I was stalling) stood up, put the (useless) sunglasses back on. ‘Okay. Now hurry up please. Don’t forget the shopping bags’. Before shuffling out into the light, I greeted the sun with an imagined middle finger. This heat. This goddamn heat.