“With the slushy gripped in one hand, Sawyer held the hot dog in the other and leaned her head sideways to take a bite. She hadn't had a hot dog in years, perhaps not since the days of running through sprinklers. She was surprised by how it all came back to her instantly-the softness of the bun, the saltiness of the meat, the tang of the mustard. "It tastes like summer," she said, attempting to lick a stray dollop of mustard from the corner of her mouth. Nick smiled. "It's almost like you're a poet or something.” HumorSummerNostalgia Book:Summer Fridays Source: Summer Fridays
“With each mile we put behind us, I felt the air grow lighter in my lungs. It was as if the city had been one large pressure cooker, simmering in its own juices. With the top down on the coupe and a stalwart, man-made breeze blowing steadily in my face, I tallied the city's many summertime brutalities: the heat that radiated from the gray asphalt and made the air dance in wavy shimmers; the stagnant ponds in Central Park that turned a milky, putrid, almost phosphorescent green and incubated countless mosquitoes; the blasts of hot dirty air that breathed upward from every subway grate; oh, and how the loud noises pouring from construction sites even somehow seemed to further agitate and heat the air!” SummerHotNew York City Book:The Other Typist Source: The Other Typist