When the heat comes, the boys fall in love and the hydrangeas die. The one we had in the yard didn't hold up last summer; the one they gave us in March won't hold this one either. In fact, it has already detected the rise in temperatures: it is starting to fade, to get sad. Growing plants from the north on the shores of the Mediterranean is playing God when you can't even keep up with Father Mundina.
Anticipating disaster, I call the technician. Look at the device, turn it on. Works. Turn it off, turn it on again. It works again. Review the machine, the command. "Everything is in order, ma'am." "But it's going to break," I insist. He looks at me with the same incredulity with which I look at the card readers, he pisses me off for not fixing something that isn't broken and leaves me sick and at the mercy of a prophecy that will be fulfilled shortly.
One more summer I will spend the days and nights with my skin on fire, a soaked shirt and wet thighs, but not like Kathleen Turner in 'Fire in the body', attractive and seductive, but like a hake fillet cooking en papillote: the personification of anti-lust. With the heat, life, things, heads are heated; everything catches fire I also. Although one is already more ashes than meat.