I’m sitting outside right now for two reasons. First, it’s cool out, the sun just having set. Second, my house smells like hamburgers. The later is my fault, having made myself a hamburger for dinner. The smell of that permeates. Most annoying. Out here, however, on my balcony, the smell of old lady is wafting from who knows what apartment neighboring mine. There could be several culprits.

The coolness is appreciated because my windows face nearly directly west, capturing the heat of the setting summer sun. My apartment is mostly unusable between the hours of 5:30 and 8 lately. I close my curtains to block out the direct rays, but it’s still toasty. I like it. I position my fan right at me wherever I am located. My favorite position is for it to be aimed right at my feet while I lounge on my bed. Maybe I read, maybe I nap. It’s summer and I am finally warm.

I only just now got out my balcony chair. It’s yellow and foldy and I use it for reading mostly. I haven’t read as much this summer as I did last. I’ve been doing other things. Last week I had a flamenco workshop every evening that left me with just enough energy to propel myself home, feed myself and get into bed. Or onto bed. It was warm last week, too. I also spent a lot of my hours spent at home with my feet up, elevated on a pillow, as they were sore from the stomping that flamenco demands.

I can hear someone using a typewriter. Imagine. I thought I was hip with a laptop.

You see that “imagine” written up there? That’s lifted from Boston Legal, episodes of which I have been watching. I am absorbing their speak. I should be reading something clever instead, and absorbing that. Shoot.

Young men with guitars have been passing by on the sidewalk in front of my building. Are they connected? Perhaps there was a sing-along down at the Serious Coffee down in the village. I mean open mike, of course. It’s probably just young men and their guitars, though. Looking cool.

Summer orange. Mmmm.

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