PM

There's something about summer nights. Days I'm awful at. Days kill me and suck my lifeforce unabashedly and I am a lounger by the swampcooler and a drinker of icy drinks (ideally. Actually I've been caught playing football outside more often than not these days, but I'm dealing). But summer nights, not to get Grease lyrics in your head I'm sorry in advance, are something else entirely.
I think I might hate them. Partially at least. There's something restless about them, some unresolved longing. Walks at night, which I love, are always disappointing because I want there to be some climax to them, some end. I want to run into someone and find or forge a lasting connection--summer nights seem magic and when they're not I'm unfulfilled. And they're harbingers of unfulfillment. That is, I have a really bad record and am usually just getting over some heartbreak come July. Or I'm in the middle of some very tumultuous relationship (it was a night like this when I agreed to marry a kid. Or several of those nights) and I walk to think through stuff and calm myself down, which never works because nights are for working yourself up--the temperature so near your body's (not internal) that there seems not to be a barrier between you and the rest of the universe. Thoughts and impulses seem to move in and out without restriction.
But how can I hate them? I love the floral smell of the night. I love the perfect temperature of the air. I love abandoned Provo. I love watching out of the corner of my eye for shifty looking neighbors.
And impetuous too. Like tonight. Like I was supposed to be in bed asleep two hours ago, but why would I sleep when I have this night? (Answer: I inevitably fall asleep, no matter where I am, sometime between 9:30 and 11 am. Also, I hit a wicked wall at 4 or so and always wish I'd slept more.)
They've been written about before, but I've been reminded this week. Hm.