We live as ghosts, haunting the steaming pink sand beach on Lover’s Key. Eating brunch on the muggy splintered porch of that cafe on US-1. Cleaning sand from between our toes as sweat travels down our necks from the unusually hot summer. Sharing cherry truffle ice cream as it drips onto the sweltering pavement. Sitting on the sizzling metal chairs around the grand piano at Cafe de Paris. Drinking plum wine in the muggy garage of the makeshift winery outside Florida City.
Always trying to escape the heat, never knowing that we will spend an eternity trapped in the stifling memory of us.