A thick soup has settled on top of New York. It's main ingredients are sweat, stink, moisture and carbon dioxide. That slurry is heated to 90-degrees by a faraway but malevolent sun and everyone and everything in the city is a little more ill-tempered than usual.
A friend of mine, despite the heat I still have one or two, showed me a photograph of someone who snapped a picture of a handheld thermometer on the platform of the B and C downtown trains at 86th Street. It read 129-degrees.
That's bread-baking hot.
Today I waited for a car to take me to work. An air-conditioned car dispatched through the ride-sharing service called Via. As I walked to spot where they were to pick me up, the skies opened up and a downpour ensued.
I sought refuge under an overhang at the Guggenheim Museum on Fifth Avenue between 88th and 89th. I was dry.
Some others were there, their shirts soaked with rain and perspiration. A nanny was their with two small charges and one large stroller. The organic smoothie man stayed in his steel box by the curb, pelted, pelted by the rain.
In short order a gigantic black SUV arrived with three other passengers. I sat down next to a pretty blonde in a short black dress with an intriguing dimple in her knee.
It was too hot to even bother.
We drove to work in silence.