![]() ![]() I couldn’t move without profusely sweating. If I had grown up below the Mason-Dixon line, I would have considered myself soft but my arctic blood couldn’t handle the consecutive days of temperatures spiked in the mid-90’s, with oppressive evening humidity making it even worse.ĭespite the evening hour, I wasn’t tired and even if I was, it was too hot to sleep. The ceiling fan above my bed spun at its highest setting to no avail. ![]() ![]() I’d gone so far as to chill a wet washcloth and drape it across my forehead. To combat the heat, I lay in bed on top of my sheets, stripped down to nothing but a tank top and underwear. Because temperatures rarely reached over 80 degrees, not too many apartment complexes offered central air, mine included. But every year, for one excruciating week in late summer, the weather became unbearable. My home state of Minnesota was better known for bitterly cold winters instead of sweltering summer heat. ![]() No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically or otherwise, without written permission from the author.Īpophis: Love Story for the End of the World Any resemblance to events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, other than those in the public domain, is entirely coincidental. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. ![]()
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