Hot and Cold

It's really hot in my apartment. The smothering blanket of summer has fallen over Florida.

I've accomplished absolutely nothing today. Along with my cats, I have drowsily spent the day lounging and thinking of things I need to get done tomorrow. But not today. Today is clearly for thinking, not doing.

This has been my first week without my guy waking up beside me. He has taken a job across the state and has left me here until our lease runs out or I finally go mental at work. Either way, I should be joining him by the time this sweaty summer is through.

I'm pondering how, if at all, this Saturday has been any different than those spent with my guy. Physically, my apartment is dirtier without him punctually washing the dishes, cleaning cat litter and taking out bags of trash. My couch is drier; let the temperature climb past 75 degrees and he develops the most disturbing case of swamp ass known to man. Perhaps he is a super-villain while I'm not looking: Swampman, tormenting the good citizens with dampness in his wake. Well, evil sidekick at best.

I know I miss him. But I am a little ashamed at how easily I've adjusted to life without him. I'm not filled with longing, I'm not depressed. Maybe a little depressed when I look at the pile of dishes in the sink. But not when I climb into bed and he's not there. I think the cats are pining for him better than me.

I'm such a cold girlfriend. Perhaps that is why I haven't broken a trace of a sweat in my afternoon heatbox of an apartment.