Lessons From the Kissing Booth

I recognize this sky. This sky is bleached pale blue and limp, every molecule of air tired of having to move so fast.

As soon as I step out of the airport it's there again, the wave of damp air that wraps its fingers in my hair and kisses me full on the mouth. The heat down here is that guy in the bar with three fingers and the smell of cheap bourbon and urine, the guy who puts his hand on your upper thigh and whispers stickily in your ear while you try frantically to dissolve into molecules and disappear. This heat is pushy and refuses to go unnoticed, and it only takes the trip from the airport to the car to remind me why I left.