The Metroplex rounded to thirty consecutive days over 100°, and thirty-five without any form of precipitation. The month of August promises—and has promised since mid-July—a high of 105 and a low of 80, with an optimist’s 3% chance of blessed rain. At 6am, Jodie stepped out of the juicy blastfurnace and into The Sweet River of Coffee, a shop that had proudly stood resolute behind the historic but abandoned pawnshop on the square since 1999.
Jodie ordered a latte, hot with two pumps of caramel, and a cup of ice to upend it into after the various unguents and tinctures had had time to meld. Jodie didn’t really understand the alchemy the small Jewish woman with perfect Betty-Boop curls performed behind the machine, but had found through trial-and-error that the resultant drink tasted better if given time to rest before chilling.
And, through repeated testing of her patience, Jodie had also discovered that the barista would allow this manoeuver only if tipped well, so that had become the procedure.
Jodie staked a claim on one of the bar chairs near the front window, already sending waves of heat into the dim interior. The cafe’s copy of the local paper felt cool to the touch, as it seemed to remember the double-digits of the early watches when it had been delivered. When the order came up, Jodie fetched it, returned to the barstool, and sank deeper into sloth.
She cracked the inside of the paper. She sipped the hot beverage to gauge it’s completion. She put her feet up. She began to pleasantly drowse in the warming morning as the barista busily clattered in her domain across the stained concrete expanse that separated the plebs from the pros.
Just as she was beginning to think it was time to perform the coldening, the door opened. The tinted glass gave way to harsh splinters of light and split her doze in two and a tall man, a silhouette without detail or reality, bustled into the space. He raised a casual hand to the barista, who said sylables that eventually became “usual,” in Jodie’s mind.
The busy man nodded affirmation and presented a card for payment. He looked around the room, up to the corners, around the edges, taking in the whole in a sweeping series of gestures that had a proprietary quality.
“Jodie!” The distinctness of the word was an affront, but Jodie smiled wanly and nodded.
“He-hey! How’ve you been, man!”
“Well, I mean!” He said the words like they meant something. “And you!”
“Yeah,” said Jody.
The man stood, hand on hip, looking out at the street baking outside. “I’ll tell you.”
Jodie shook the paper and tried to decide if she could be comfortable again, but the man turned to her abruptly .
“Tell you what, Jodie. They say the whole month is gonna be like this, hundreds in the day and eighty at night. But I don’t know. I feel like, today, something broke. Something turned. This is autumnal.”
“Yeah,” Jodie nodded, blinked, and looked out the window.
“Like, it’s still hot, but there’s something in the air. There’s a coolness under the heat that wasn’t there yesterday.”
Jodie nodded again, feeling foolish. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Anyway. I won’t keep you. It looks like my coffee’s up, and your ice is melted. You take it easy, now.” And he bustled out into the heat-haze of the day.
Jodie looked at the melted ice in one cup and the cooling latte in the other, thought about trying to limp along with fresh ice, but couldn’t catch the barista’s eye, there in the empty coolness of The Sweet River of Coffee.