Summer here is a sweaty business. Still, steamy days sit heavy over baking roofs and (if you’re lucky) labouring air conditioning. In the evening, occasionally, a breeze sneaks through windows and down trickling necks; the mercury drops a degree or two, and residents celebrate with hot showers to wash off the stickiness of the day. Seconds out of the bathroom, beads line upper lips and legs fling blankets and sheets from beds. Mosquitoes tilt at screens as windows, flung wide open, offer little respite.
Winter is the time for commitment and steadiness here; summer is a passionate, unfaithful, alluring season. All that sweat; all that heat; all that thirst. All the temptation of the beach, the sun, the holidays. Summer draws you in with the promise of afternoon storms – teases with passing clouds, tortures with sweltering air, to the point where you hate it, hate it, hate it, until the cold, fat drops smack into the ground and the lightning dances and the wind curls fresh, cool fingers around curtains and through lethargic lounge rooms, and with rolls of thunder end to end, the earth releases its rich, joyful scent.
They never stay, though. They never linger. Summer storms are to be loved and let go; don’t get attached. Summer is not the season to get attached.