Humidity City

I reposition myself on the couch and tug on the small gray blanket. It barely covers my toes. Little beads of sweat pool against my hairline as I shift around a little more, trying to get comfortable.

"Useless," I breathe. "Too fucking hot."

I take a sip from my glass of water then set it back on the wooden coffee table. I clasp my hands against my chest like a corpse, and wait. Wait for sleep to consume me. Nothing.

A door suddenly opens and, "Bergman, do you want to sleep in here tonight?"

Luke emerges from his bedroom, leaning casually against the open door frame and looking cozy in glasses and pajamas. I've been sleeping in the living room all weekend, so this question surprises me.

But I'm most surprised by the way he asks me, so casually, as if the very suggestion isn't laced in heavy implications. As if the long weekend that two friends have just spent together wasn't leading to this exact kind of moment. A moment of truth.

I must look flushed, because he cocks his head to the side and smiles, "I have an AC unit, you know. Don't be shy."

Now I know I'm blushing. I feel warmness spread quickly to every end of my body, so I throw off the blanket and stand. I walk slowly towards him and try my best to act casual about it like him. Oh, we're playing this game? I can be subtle, too.

Even before I reach the doorway of his room, I feel the icy breeze of the window unit hit me. My hesitation suddenly melts away, and I step easily through his door.

Luke now stands with his back to me, crouched over the unit, fiddling with the dials. 

"That's as cold as it gets unfortunately."

He turns around, finding me standing a few feet back, arms outstretched and eyes half-closed. I am enjoying this little moment of winter.

"Better?" he laughs.

"Infinitely," I whisper back.

I watch him walk to his desk to set his glasses down, his demeanor so calm and easy that my heart stops fluttering. Well, kind of. He's wearing an old white t-shirt and thin gray pants, and all I can think is that he must be hot. Why is he wearing so many clothes? And —Is it possible that we’re just going to sleep right now?

I notice the muscles in his long arms, the shape of a tattoo peeking out underneath one of his sleeves. He is no longer the scrawny 18-year-old boy that I once knew, the college friend that used to sell me weed from his little attic apartment, who used to ask me to stay a while, to listen to new music, to talk about our lives, and simply, be. I feel my mouth going dry, an unfamiliar taste pooling deep inside me. It’s hard to look away from him, to stop my thoughts from wandering…

When he catches me staring, the playful expression is gone. In its place is hunger, and need. It's a face I've never seen before, and I simply unravel. 

“Luke, I …”

“Yes?” he interrupts. He holds my gaze and waits, turning his whole body to face me. From the corner of my eye, I sense him step forward, just a fraction of an inch, the sound of his quiet steady breathing echoing against my own shallow breaths. 

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