Dog Days

To The Lady on the Train,

We are in a heat wave and with the lake effect humidity, it is oppressive. The torpid dog days of summer are aptly named and my black furred, four legged companion pants and dawdles behind me when normally he is eagerly leading the way. We slow our pace since we have no worries of time or better places to be. 

I feel the press of the sun’s rays and the  weight of the air makes walking feel more like swimming. And as usual, you come to my mind and I find my escape. There were times walking beside you, marble floors beneath us, and I swear that my feet did not touch them. Gravity had no hold on me then and I was 10 feet tall. 

And now I hold the memory of you like I would hold your hand, soft and strong and a contained tempest. Even now I can throw off the bonds of earth’s gravity to rise above this heat and feel the way I once did. 

The dog looks at me quizzically and I am pulled back to earth and the press of hot air rising to meet me. His dark brown eyes say that it is time to return home. He is, of course, right. 

The Man in the Station