Weather. Whether. Whether.
It's close.
As I kid, I heard grown-ups saying "it's close" and I never knew to what. But then I thought a well-endowed woman had a lot of money.
Now I know. There's a rich sense of foreboding. There's a slow-motion windback stillness like an eighties art house movie trying to show us that the worst is yet to come.
And it's hot. In an unsunny way.
People on the tube gulp for air like their asthma is playing up.
A faint perspiratory glimmer on the collective top lip of the city.
A kid in the street tells his father "he's firsty."
It's hot. Close. Windless. Warm. Waiting.
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