Hot Air Soup

 A hot, airless evening. I walk up the street as through an invisible soup of hot air. Hot air soup. At the Hideaway, I order a cappuccino, take a seat, but soon retreat to the outdoor area where a breeze might at least be hoped for. Hope itself makes a difference. The clouds, hanging low to the ground, heavy with irresolute rain, turn black to night in concert with the sky. A young man on one of the patio stools strums his guitar and sings and his wife--I think his wife--sings along intermittently. Their little boy says "Hi!" Hi, I answer. "Hi!" Hi. "Hi!" His mother shushes him. "Terus 'hi' she scolds, and laughs. And the boy is quiet, because he has exhausted his vocabulary in English. Thrice. The man strums on the guitar and he and his wife sing and the cashier hidden away inside the Hideaway sings as well. I sit back, put my book on the table, having read not a sentence anyway. It's too hot. It's just too hot. And the singing and the mellow strings of the guitar make me think, which was something I came here to avoid. I think that something is wrong. I think that something is not being said. I think that innuendo has been the air for the last few days, like hot air soup, but I don't I don't understand innuendo, I don't understand hints. I do understand portents. That's all.