In the soupiest, filthiest weeks of August in New York City, I notice a shift in energy. Languor gives way to a sort of feverish sociability – everyone wants to go to the beach, have drinks on a roof, go on a date, squeeze in a weekend away. There’s a panicked sense of scarcity, of back-to-school gloom.
We cling to the idea of summer as it slithers through our fingers because it is special. I love the outdoors-ness of the season and being bombarded by the lives of others as we relish whatever outside space we can get. It’s a time for feeling connected to people, to nature, to the sun – for texting a friend “I’m here – join!” We’re looser, freer, more feral. Caleb Azumah Nelson describes the blooming of a romance in his novel Small Worlds thus: “Because it’s summer and everything is possible …” Summer is hopeful. It’s fun.
