It's muggy out in Manhattan.
It's as hot as a Hasid in a sauna in August.
I walked across the park this morning, my usual Thursday routine, and by the time I hit the subway platform on 86th and Central Park West, the knees of my pants were wet with sweat and my shirt was fairly soaked through.
Even the rats were feeling it. Instead of scampering from shadow to shadow, they ambled like a baseball manager making his way to the mound to talk to his pitcher.
The office was empty when I got in. No one was here.
I washed my hands and face, hoping to remove the sweat and subway grit as best I could. Then I snuck to the back and found the thermostat. It was encased in a clear, locked plexiglass box. I pried it open with a scissors and reset the temp from 75 to 70 degrees. A small concession to comfort.
It's muggy out in Manhattan.
And I have a long day ahead of me.
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