Humidity

By Zary Fekete

In July the air was thick enough to push back. You and I stood in it, early, before the sun arrived like a loud, brash fire. At dawn the corn leaves were still wet and sharp at the edges. Our shirts soaked through in a quiet, even kind of way…cold at first and then, gradually, soft and friendly as air-conditioning while the field around us warmed.

We were sixteen. Someone had told us detasseling paid well if you stuck with it, and we believed them because believing things was easier then. The rows went on, switching back and forth under the endless Minnesota sky. We moved inside the corn, slow and obedient, our fingers finding the tassels by feel alone.

By midmorning the sun had flattened everything. Even the insects sounded tired. 

At lunch we found shade under a line of trees hanging wearily over the field’s side. Someone passed around the red coffee jug full of bright cherry Kool-Aid. It tasted like metal and childhood and everything else that disappears before it should.

You said, “Six more weeks. Then the road trip.”
I nodded. I remember wishing that six weeks would feel long. Better to be looking forward and waiting, knowing somehow that the hoping was the best part of the future.

Later, when the heat finally pulled away and the sounds of the town softened, we climbed the grain elevator. The metal rungs clanged up into the dark. From the catwalk, the town below looked like a wide, dark bowl, gathering up all those small lives. A few porch lights. A few dogs. A spurt of tires on gravel.

You said, “Nothing’s ever going to change.”
I said, “Yeah,” because that was easier.

Now it is years later. The air has circled back to us. We sit on the screened balcony of a sobriety place where no one uses the word “recovery” unless they have to. Beyond the mesh screen, the swamp breathes its warm, green breath. The cicadas drill the night open. There is a train somewhere far off, dragging its long sound.

You stir the ice in your drink while your cup sweats. We don’t mention the ones who didn’t make it. Instead, we talk about how the humidity feels familiar, like an old shirt.

You say, “Summers used to feel endless.”
I say, “Still do sometimes.”

The swamp glints in the half-light. I glance at you. Your elbows are resting on your knees in the same posture you had on the catwalk years ago…like you’re still learning how to carry your own weight.

For a moment the balcony becomes that high steel walkway above the sleeping town. The warm air presses close, gentle and unbothered. Something in it says we survived, and something else says we almost didn’t.

We stay there awhile. Neither of us moves first.

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and currently lives in Tokyo. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (The Written Path: A Journey Through Sobriety and Scripture) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social