I’d been out of town for over a week, making my way on foot through London and its suburbs, through Brighton and its humid hotel rooms. Outside, in New York, it’s not yet noon and the tempurature is nearly 90 degrees. I’m thirsty and bloated and surprised at what my body will do when confronted with such situations.

London was fantastic, a congested blur. When I wasn’t wheezing and sneezing, I was downing soy lattes, pints of beer, things that are fried — what isn’t fried in England? I swear I didn’t eat a leafy green vegetable once in 10 days. We crossed the Waterloo bridge so often I nearly memorized the pattern of the tiny blue lights that dotted the dark underpass below it. (And the scent of urine that accompanied it. Some things never change, worldwide.) The sun shines with an unmatched intensity and length in London. We arrived at 8PM at Heathrow and the sun was beaming still as we made our way out of the baggage claim and got into the cab to Richmond, the steering wheel shockingly displaced. I felt as if there was no shade anywhere we went, and I ended up with a nice sunburn on my left shoulder after our day-long trek through Camden Market. It has since evolved to tan, a white stripe where my bra strap was.

Now, back in New York, my days are open. An expanse of summer stretches out before me like a beach or a runway. There are mornings swimming laps at the public pool, late afternoon iced mochas and lunches of greens and chick peas. Freelance work piles in folders and directories I’ve created on my desktop. I keep giving myself time to readjust from vacation, but really I should be working, now.

A slow silence is wrapping itself around me, the noises on the street below my apartment are muffled. It’s just the tapping of the keyboard, when I think of it, and the shout of the heat radiating from the pavement.