I walked home without my coat on, watched three friends fool around with a guitar on the their front steps, heard laughter, saw skin.
I took the longest route home even though the strap of my bag, holding my shed-off sleeves and more than my share of library books, was digging into my shoulder. Now, I have put the bag down, surveyed the indentation, and want to go back out and explore the summer-seeming night.
Weather this mild is so infrequent, especially for it to have lasted into the night. The good sun was kind enough to leave lingering warmth as she gathered herself to settle in. The air feels nostalgic and carefree, sweet smells of honeysuckle waft over to me, an energy of contentment swoops me up: excitement and relief. It feels good to sweat, to be outside, to walk and be blanketed by that made-especially-for-me temperature. I am lubricated by perfection.
It reminds me of growing up, of east coast evenings, all the sounds and aspirations. Friendly and familiar, this night cradles me. It removes worry and negativity. It produces hope in abundance. I gladly take what I am offered.