Technically speaking, it is night.
However, despite the chronological truth of the statement (a quick glance at his watch offers the time: twenty-fifteen), the moon barely glimmers in the sky. The heavens are unchanging – they remain as lazy blue as the afternoon. Summer does not bow down. It is not safe yet.
He sits on his porch, contemplating. There is an emotion deeper than impatience, there – it is the impatience of several days – several months, several years, several decades – and if he had a heart, it would pound with anticipation as he waits for the inky darkness of true night. He always waits.
His skin still feels cool to the touch, underneath the awning’s shade. In the sun, he feels the burning sensation come on quickly. From underneath, where his organs begin to heat up, it travels at record speed to the surface.
Once it breaks through the surface, he feels a rupture – excruciating, like something inside of him trying to break free.
Summer does not bow down, but it eventually grows bored, and allows brief hours of coolness for monsters to roam. He watches the fleecy white clouds, waiting.
If there was any blood in his body, the summer sun would set it on fire. He knows – more than most men – how fast blood can boil. When he drinks it, he mixes in ice cubes. That’s when it tastes sweetest. He will wait for such delicacies. He always waits.