Siren

New day. The heat is stifling, the sort of heat that makes the air go heavy and wrap around you like a blanket, makes the asphalt shimmer and empties the streets. It's early yet for cicadas, and the air is so late-summer that the absence of their familiar rattle is an active, noticeable thing. People scurry into the sun like pillbugs from under a brick, eager to escape the relentless light into the cool dim of their air-conditioned apartments or cars or jobs. For my part, I too am holed up buglike, safe and sound and ever-so-delicately stagnating away in my apartment.

Across the river, the city crouches, wrapped in its haze of car exhaust made visible by the unmoving air. I am in an adventuring mood, and it seems from time to time I look up to hear its siren call wafting on a nonexistent breeze. Willingly waste your time with me, the filthy city sings, I have people, I have places, I have stories, and it is with a regretful heart I turn back to my essay, my work, my responsibilities.

"Responsibilities" is a winding, dull, annoying whine of a word. But we do what we have to.

Soon, I mutter back to the city and its millions of moments and lives that never wait to be discovered, that go missed and missing while I tackety-type away at schoolwork most meaningless.

Soon.