The floor is the coolest place in this apartment and I live here now

Ninety-four degrees outside and our building’s idea of air conditioning is ‘the suggestion of a breeze if you stand in front of the fan at exactly the right angle.’ I have been lying on the hardwood floor for twenty minutes. It is not helping. But it is also the only thing I am willing to try.

The floor is the coolest place in this apartment and I live here now

I genuinely cannot explain what is happening with June this year. The archive project is spread across the dining table — Margaret’s three family contacts, my notes from the first round of coordination calls, a whole system I was very proud of two weeks ago — and I have not touched any of it since about eleven this morning when the apartment crossed some invisible threshold and became a greenhouse. The documentation can wait. The floor cannot.

The ice melted faster than my will to function.

Made ice water. Watched it become room-temperature water in approximately eight minutes. Considered this a personal failure. The fan in the kitchen is doing its best and I respect the effort even though it is objectively moving hot air from one side of the counter to the other. Jake is at work, which means he is in an air-conditioned building right now, and I am choosing not to think about that too hard. Tonight I will be very gracious about it. Right now I am lying on the floor in my linen shorts like a Victorian heroine and calling it self-care.