Under the Fan

I get out of the shower, towel off, but I'm still wet. It's that hot. Humid. I stand naked under the fan, windows open, hoping no dog walkers or schoolchildren chance to look in. The moving air doesn't seem to be doing any drying, it's just pushing the moisture around. Even standing exerts too much effort, I am sweating.

I stretch out onto the wooden floor, nice and cooldirt be damned. I'd sit in a cold bath but I want so badly to be dry, so badly. I don't want any wet pits, no sweat creases, no discomfort. I'd like to be clean, dry, not gathering dust on the floor while my fan fails to cool me. Sweat helps with cooling. That's what they say. They say a lot. I have found, in my time, that they are mostly wrong.

I wake up, fell asleep, there on the floor. The fan spins, the lights have gone out. I shiver, my own fallen hair attached to my back, adhered with my own residue. I could bathe. I could shower again. But right now I want a shirt, pants, and I cannot seem to move. It is only the briefest of moments, this sleep paralysis, but all these thoughts happen at once. I cannot walk, I will never move again, and I am here on my dirty floor, never to feel quite right again.