It's hot. Screw that whole dry-heat thing. You've sweated through April, May, June and all of your clothes. There's no escape. The sky is white, washed out. You fart dust. Your eyelids scrape across your glazed, desiccated eyeballs. Beer has no effect—it's like drinking water. Imitating a lizard, you scamper pathetically from one shady spot to another, or simply collapse in the shade until nightfall. One day, the humidity rises. Wait ... are those clouds to the south? The east? Giant cumulonimbi rise, wet and dark and bulbous, letting loose with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. Tumbleweeds roll down the street. And then, it opens up and pours. It's all you can do not to stand naked in the street, worshipping the rain. The glorious rain.
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