The air was hot, and the idea of moving was simply frightening. There was nothing he could do to stop sweating. He pictured himself standing up, walking to the kitchen, grabbing a rag, wetting it and laying it on his chest. He then began to picture how drawn out the walk to the kitchen would be, how the hot air would fill in around his arms and legs, and how his breathing would become quickly laboured and humid.
Maybe, on the off chance that he’d give himself the courage to walk all the way to the kitchen, he could stand there, with the refrigerator door swung wide open, and cool off like the vegetables in the crisper drawer. This time, he pictured the cold air swirling, entwining with his arm hairs and making them stand on end. He took a minute to picture this and struggled in deciding whether or not the pay off would be worth it. Without really meaning to in the first place he pictured a tall glass, with beads of condensation collecting on the outside, and sweet tea on the inside, poured over ice. He pictured himself, frozen in a large block of ice.
Then, sweating from all the picturing he was doing, he gave up picturing anything at all.
Story by Ella McClure