I’m on the #60 bus, leaving York to Finch. It’s 34° out with the
humidity to feel like the high 40’s. There is no AC. The air-vent blows
out hot winds. It isn’t heat: it’s the very touch of fire.
The couple in front of me has taken to the climate. The man languidly
moistening his lips with perspiration from her neck. The women breathes
as if the air was water timing to the rthyme of the stop-and-go traffic.
She closes her eyes to the tasting of her lover. He stops; and whispers
something close to her ear. She breathes even deeper. The air turns red
like blood. His hands moves to some unseen place. She lets out a
soundless gasps, all the air pours from her. And she opens her eyes and
met his. And they sit close, mixing the sweat from their skin and
cuddle, rocking gently by the busride in the heat.