It’s too hot to sweat. It’s too hot to move, to breathe. I call the suicide hotline.
Can you hold?
No, I can’t hold.
I’m sorry sir. We have a backlog of callers.
Please don’t put me on hold.
Remain on the line, sir. The next available counselor will take your call.
After an hour I hang up, open a beer and press the cold bottle against my temple. I drink the beer then call the suicide hotline again. The line is busy. I hang up and look out the window. The streets are empty. There are no cars, no people, no dogs running loose over the hot pavements. Birds sitting on electric wires collapse and fall to the asphalt below, briefly flutter their wings then die in the ferocious heat.
I call again. The line is still busy. Everybody is inside calling the suicide hotline. I open another beer and press the cold bottle to my forehead. Tomorrow I will be the only one left alive.
How bad can that be?