Temperature Control

One of the houses on our block is painted a gaudy color that makes me stall every time. There’s thick gravel that heats up enough to scald bare feet during the summer. A skittering little cat darts across the street like that’ll make you not see her. Her bell jingles and pretends not to hear me calling her name, until she decides to roll around on the ground and get dirt all over her fur.

I’m outside looking at it from her point of view. She’s thrilled I’m on her land, her territory. There to bask in her glow while the other cats stay away. She’s a little runt and would run back to the house without me.

On the corner there’s an entire group of people that I would get the same impression if I was a stranger. Cold. Unfeeling. Kept.

No one opens their door, except for one house that always has the garage open.

It’s a small suburbia with pale Arizona peach and numbers on the houses. They are all evenly spaced out, sameness spreading through every angle and degree.

Walking further up the street and turning the corner, it’s more of the same. And another street and I can see the park off in the distance.

The slide gives static and the swings pinch. The grass gets flooded.

The street signs never get fixed and there are always cars parked in front of things they shouldn’t be.

There is never anyone out of their houses, but there is a few children walking home. They get cold calculating stares as you pass them. The pedestrians are too frightened to walk across the street if a car is coming. They just stand there and stare.

Most of the time this is the right move, because the cars ignore them.

It’s amazing how cold a neighborhood can feel in a place so hot.