It’s four in the morning. I wake up agitated. It’s too quiet. I realize the air-conditioning isn’t running.
The bedspread is on the floor, and the sheets are soaked with sweat. The room even smells hot.
Confounded by this, I check the thermostat. It’s 86 degrees, which would be perfect if I was at a barbecue, but not really ideal for a night’s sleep. There’s air coming out of the vents. Warm air, mocking me. I throw on boxers and look at my husband snoring contentedly. I have no idea how he sleeps through stuff like this.
I’ve always been the person who wakes up at the slightest provocation, bolting up to seek the source of sound. My father used to go to work at five every morning, and I’d jump out of bed when I heard him in the kitchen. I couldn’t keep myself in the bed, knowing there was something going on in the house which required investigation. I’d find Dad at the kitchen table, eating Raisin Bran in his postal uniform.