It’s hot and it’s bright. The AC blares freon at your face like it’s a forgotten instrument in the song that rattles through the speakers—like a motor, bulldozing the heat out of existence. Your eyes glance at the dash that shows a temperature inching closer and closer to 100 degrees.
Palm trees line the street like the road is your pathway to freedom, and with every sharp-bladed leaf, you know your 4-wheeled chariot is crawling closer to mental sovereignty. You can see it, but can you feel it? Can you smell that bold, beautiful, benevolent, bittersweet scent of the wind on the other side of the glass?
Your old man, his voice echos in your ears, and you know if the windows come down, the AC turns off. His cardinal rule. And with that, you remember the day you tried, the day you dared to manually roll a window down while the freezing air blew out of the dash. Does it take you back to the aroma of camel cigarettes stained into walnut leather car seats? Maybe. Or perhaps just the look of disappointment from the old man, as you attempted such sin. You’ll have that same look one day.
Hopefully, you can smile to yourself as you turn the AC off and let the windows down. Your Vans hit the gas pedal, your polarized shades brighten with the invitation of sunlight that now beams into the car.
August has arrived. She’s hot like a demon, but goddamnit, you love her warm breath as it collides into the windshield and brushes past the fingers that hang out the window. They can call you a masochist, they’ll call what they will, but you’ll still love her even at 200 degrees.
