"As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean. "
Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner knew a thing or two about searing heat and windless days, although perhaps had been on the Meuse River it may well have been a Canada Goose that he’d shot instead of an Albatros.
“Thirty-seven degrees” declared the neon on the pharmacy nearby as we sat on the opposite bank, sipping a drink loaded with ice while waiting for the shade from the Casino or the Citadel, we didn’t care which, to engulf our little blue polyester oven.
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