Anxious Summer Rituals

1. My morning schedule depends on the weather. If it's bright, I tend to wake up late, preferring closed blinds to blinding sun. If it's cloudy, I tend to wake up early, preferring contemplation in bed to sleep. This rhythm happens unconsciously. I feel more human and more vulnerable when the sky is grey; I don't like how pleasant weather necessitates a pleasant emotional response. I like staying inside where the fan blows and I can stretch my legs this way and that, alternately laced through the footboard and over and through bedsheets, dangling perilously from my mattress, twisted sideways while I lay supine. I like reading articles on my phone before I physically leave my bed. I like to wake up slowly.

2. Every few days Brian will come over to my house after I finish dinner. It's around 8pm, and I'm bored. There hasn't been much to do this summer—I've been exceptionally lazy, preferring the mildly air-conditioned interior to the almost-certain-heat-death exterior. Sometimes we take a walk around the block if I'm already wearing socks, though I'm usually not because my feet get sweaty. I enjoy these walks, though, even if they're infrequent and I'm initially reluctant.

We watch no fewer than three episodes of X-Files. With my laptop, we move from my bed to my futon to my bed again, but facing the opposite direction, bringing in cooler pillows. I'm in my pajamas, and he's unbuttoned his shirt because it's too hot. In between episodes I play on my phone, hoping for something more exciting to materialize. I think of past summer nights where we waded in the dark through tall grass, inhaling fresh air and mosquitos in equal parts. I think of when we lay together on the driveway, our faces turned sallow under humming streetlights. I don't want to be obtrusive so I silently watch and click "next." He leaves at midnight with a tiny hug and I run upstairs to wash off my makeup.

3. Every afternoon, coming back from summer school, after eight hours of near-constant artistic production, I treat myself to something sweet. Dark chocolate covered mangoes, an ice cream bar, a lemon Fiber One square. Lately, though, I've preferred Chinese buns—lotus paste—because they are white and warm and soft and small—and they are harmless, I'm sure. Cupping the bun in my hands, I make my way upstairs, reeking of stress and fear, anxious for respite. I plop onto my bed, and it's 5:45pm, and I'm fully clothed.

Because I steam the bun in the microwave, I have to unravel it from a hot, wet paper towel. I usually burn myself on my fingertips or on the roof of my mouth. Sometimes, after I eat, or while I eat, I close my eyes and wish for sleep, though it rarely comes. Sometimes I watch YouTube—vlogs, mostly. Sometimes I enjoy the bun in silence. I will lay my laptop flat on my belly and let it warm me, even though it's summer, even though my bedsheets are flannel, even though the fan is blowing and I'm sweating. There is a mirror across the room that reflects, when I sit upright, a pallid image of my face. When I slump down, though, low enough that my neck compresses into a roll and my head and torso become one, my laptop screen obscures the periphery, and my line of sight is flooded by the blue-white glow of my computer.