It’s really hot out here. My skin is melting onto the paper. My sweat is dripping down the pen. My dog is licking my shoulder. I think she likes the way my lotion tastes. Go away. I see floaters dancing before my eyes, little squiggles of protein inside the vitreous humor of my retinas. Shoo. I watch drops of sweat soak the opposite page. One.two.three.four.five.six.seven.eight.nine.ten. Soon after its landing, each drop hurries to become a part of the single, unified sweat splatter. Maybe they feel less alone that way. I rub my drippy face against the striped beach towel so I can write without drowning my notebook. Maybe I resent the sweating because its sensation is reminiscent of that of crying. I hate crying, though you’d never guess. Looking back at the sweat-stained page, I notice how the wetness has made it wrinkle and stain a bit. Good thing skin isn’t like paper…or my face might be spotted and shriveled. At the bottom of the other page is another sweat cluster. This one’s shaped like a heart. But not really. It’s not how my heart looks. This weird shape has no veins, no arteries, no blood. Maybe this is how a dead heart looks.

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