Moving Through Molasses

Lately I feel sluggish, as though I'm moving through molasses.

But the air is clear tonight, and after my third Stella, the words start to take shape.

The breeze off of the Hudson. The glittering lights from the opposite shore. A French accent.

We smoke Gauloises and exhale upward, talking about the things we'd love to do, and I feel something different in the air. It takes me a few moments to recognize it.

It is relief.

Relief that this strange, interminable summer is almost over.

And that the rest of my life is waiting.