The sing-song chant of "Mango, Mango" being called out by the woman selling peeled mangos near Union Square sounded heavenly, some siren song compelling me towards what, I am not sure, since I didn't buy the mango mango. But I walked on happy for whatever inexplicable reasons that the chanting of a fruit's name and the warm, muggy summer air - sticky even - why the two in combination will cause a wild sort of joy. I thought of Matt and his fascination with the battery lady on the subway - how he had talked about wanting to sample her cry of "Battery - one dollar" in a song. This was a much more melodic sound. And there was a slight nostalgia fit thinking back not only to Matt, but to many short-lived encounters with boys. Normal levels of physical longing and horniness are exacerbated by heat, so that every boy passed leads to thoughts of dick, of lying side by side with someone. Even the calls of ladies selling peeled fruit will spark these thoughts when the weather is right. Mango. Mango.

It was the call of happiness, and when I was forced to go back into the Strand, to the place I have come to detest, I knew that there was this beautiful noise and this beautiful world outside this dusty store. I checked my phone throughout the day, hoping the Princeton Review Woman had called. She didn't. I have my fingers crossed that it will happen tomorrow. My shirt is saturated with sweat. I just ate eggs with hotsauce. I am going to throw off these sticky clothes, all of them, because I can do whatever I want in this, my adult life, and I am going to stay up reading that Rhodes novel.