Josh Young

Heat

It was hot, an understatement I cannot
overstate. Meanwhile, good boys and
girls sat in crisp, cool air-conditioned
cubicles, with cat calendars and birthday
cake for the receptionist. We were dying
from heat, gas station diets, and
Marlboros. Their souls died young, but
their bodies would go on another seventy
or eighty years, assuming the
apocalypse would not happen before
then, just staring at blue screens, neither
alive nor dead, zombies in skirts and ties.
Sweat poured off my face into my eyes,
stinging, constantly wiping away. The
men fawned over the new girl, wiping
glistening sweat from her forehead and
cleavage, giving momentary distractions
along with the fights and betting. She had
them wrapped around her finger even
more than the boss. It was hot, an
understatement.