That afternoon was somehow suspended in a bubble in that gentle breeze. A bubble that refuses to pop as it glides about giggling at itself. Everywhere Fiona and I strolled, people were outside stealing that moment of unseasonably perfect August weather. The town’s senses was sharpened. It’s breath was held.
Women had conversations on phones and on porches in hushed tones slightly heard still over the din of bug wings rubbing their Summer wings together. It was up to the passerby to just not listen. The wind rustled leaves and shoved clouds across the sky. Those few moments in that day felt unreal and exhilarating and forbidden.
We were all somehow complicit in enjoying that illegal Summer weather. We were each other’s witnesses to feeling decadent and guilty that this loveliness may come at a price. Because it’s never this nice in Maryland at this time of the year. Ever. Our souls sold, we silently agreed to just not much mind. And enjoy this bath-like weather while we could.