The day is hot. The sun bombards the earth with photons. The sky is clear blue; no clouds to offer the barest of reliefs. The pavement absorbs and reflects the heat back up into the air we walk through.
The day is hot. My long skirt shades my legs and allows the meager breeze to cool them. My white wide brim hat shades my face and reflects the light away from my dark hair. My blouse is thin light material that my skin can breathe through.
The day is hot. I walk this route many times a week, usually alone. Today a man walks in the same direction. We are not walking together. We are not friends. We do not talk. But it is nice in a way to travel with someone.
The day is hot. I am almost home. Soon I can sit and enjoy cool air. The man speaks to me, “So when did you move down here?” “I’m sorry, what?” I reply. I heard what he said but I hope he means something other than what I dread. “Aren’t you from Mexico?” He meant it after all.