It hit 97 degrees in Harlem on Sunday and the city did what the city always does. Someone cracked open the fire hydrant on my block.
I live near 135th and the 2/3 train, and by noon the whole street was one long river running toward the gutter. Kids in their underwear. A guy in Timbs standing directly in the spray, fully clothed, eyes closed, having a spiritual experience.
During a heat advisory in New York City your apartment becomes a small betrayal. My window unit wheezed and gave up around one o'clock. So I did the only reasonable thing. I put on shorts, grabbed a mango popsicle from the bodega, and went to stand near the hydrant like everyone else.
An auntie on a folding chair — every block has one, and thank god for them — told me to move to the left because the water pressure was better there. She was correct. She is always correct.
There is something about a heat advisory that flattens everyone. No one is cool. No one is important. We are all just moist, sweaty animals sharing the runoff from a fire hydrant and being weirdly nice to each other about it.
It reminded me of monsoon back home, honestly. Not the rain itself, but the way the whole neighborhood spills outside when the weather does something dramatic. The way heat and water pull people out of their private lives and into the street.
I got soaked. My popsicle melted faster than I could eat it. A kid splashed me on purpose and then apologized so sweetly I nearly adopted him.
Walked home dripping, grinning, ruined in the best way.
Summer in this city is unbearable. I would not trade it for anything.
Love,