Rising Wave

It was hot. Things always got hot this time of year. But the concept of 'this time of year' was shifting globally. But it was hot. It was a superlative type of roasting in that small apartment.

The number on the digital display moved up by one. A two made up of five lines turned into a three made up of the same number of lines. This was technically supposed to be impossible. The setting was something that you input, not that changed based on external measurements.

But that's how hot it was. The AC unit was actually blowing in air that was slowly getting warmer.

The green light fuzzily shone in the distance. You were at the other end of the kitchenette. All the lights were off and the thick blinds were drawn for maximum coverage. It was sensory deprivation levels of dark but somehow, this made things even more uncomfortable. The black seemed to trap the staleness of the air and the lack of visual distractions made the heaviness weigh on your skin, your neck, your brow, your crotch, your soul.

The only thing that was clear was the neon 23 from your classic window air conditioning unit. The light reminded you of the stoplight that hung just outside of your window. In the winter, you usually draw the curtains all the way, even when sleeping. The greens, yellows, and reds seep into your room, pouring across your beaten up and dusty futon. You find the urban palette of colours does not hinder your sleep but makes things familiar; like you're part of a large community of others being bothered by the same lights.

A siren wails in the distance. You wonder if your thick curtains muffles the sound even more. This was yet another annoyance that bound all within the metropolis roads.

You notice that the wails are getting closer; it sounds like the ambulance or fire truck is on the major street that you live off of. You didn't really know your neighbours that well but you often imagined what their lives were like. The small Icelandic woman on the third floor just seemed like a knitter even though she was probably still in university. Maybe she knit beer cozies for the parties she often threw.

But when Mr. Deacon-something died on G and the ambulance came and the paramedics trudged through the hallways with their heavy gear, that was when you realized just how many neighbours you had. A number people were in solid coloured bathrobes with various levels of fuzziness. But within their concerned, wrinkled, tear stained faces, you didn't recognize them. You had been here four plus years and still there was no familiarity. You all were bound by the same cement and bricks and mortar but everyone still lived as isolated pods with furniture, clothes, and random shampoo brands.

They said that Deacon-something had died of a mix of old-age and the weather. You had remembered it being mild that day and not enough to kill a man, especially one that you were sure was in his 50s.

The siren was on your street, on your sidewalk, across from the breakfast place that you always went to with the terrible coffee but that one type of rooibus that you could only find there.

It was very loud. The sound waves somehow traveled through the static air of your hovel. The green light of the AC display reflected through the sweat falling from your forehead.

It now read 25.

But the sound and commotion was something. Your back skin peeled from the vinyl backed kitchen chair you were trying to just survive the night in. The sweat puddle that you walked through on the floor was somehow hot as well.

It took a number of exasperated tugs to pull back the curtains due to the dense, tan material. You were told once that this style was the preferred style in Morocco. You wondered if it was currently cooler there.

Outside, it was still dark. Even though your brain was currently a fried egg from a drug PSA commercial, you still noticed the lack of the familiar green, yellow, and red on your corner. The pole had fallen and was smashed on the asphalt and concrete. A motorcycle was a fair distance away, completely totalled. The firemen on the scene were looking through the debris for clues of what had happened. There was no driver anywhere obvious.

With the artificial lights of the city removed, you looked up to the natural (or reflected natural) light of the moon. The cloud cover was thin with wisps of clouds moving by somehow signaling that it should be a cooler evening. But with that, you see a odd sight of a person in a riding gear sprawled out on the branches of a tree just opposite your window. The firefighters don't seem to have noticed. The person is not moving.

A bead of sweat goes into your right eye and you blink as it stings.

You don't really register it.

Yelling takes energy and you probably have that energy. But you don't yell. You don't try to make contact with anyone out there. These are just more strangers that you're connected to through mental exercises and superficial themes.

The curtain moans has it is slid back into place. If the green, yellow, and red isn't out there to greet you, why should you look outward.

Also, why didn't you hear any of the commotion outside when this happened. Had you been transported to another, stagnant dimension?

The green light now read 27... 28...