The London sun is tongue-heavy, weighing down the heels. It hurts the head and strains the eyes, but it’s good, sweet, cheap like a bacon sandwich from the shop on the corner. It stains the back, shoulders, and nose, but it warms in the way it hurts. Shirts stick to well-clothed backs, and inside boots socks and toes squirm, the fabric growing stiff as sweat dries; for every salty drop that drips down long noses, passes through chapped lips, there is a pull of muscle, a parking of young eyes, and a burn to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Celia Daniels is pursuing a Masters in English Literature at the University of Toledo. She grows catnip but doesn’t have a cat to share it with. Find her work in Road Maps and Life Rafts, Magic Jar, Entropy, 11/9: The Fall of American Democracy, and Timeless Tales.