In this new-found moisture-ridden weather my back will not stop itching.
After wandering around for a few hours – not even in direct sunlight but in air-conditioned shops and shaded courtyards – I come home, watch a tv show, do some more work, and wait for the prickle to creep up my back.
Ceaseless and inscrutable. Like that stray hair caught inside your shirt. You keep thinking you’ve found it, but not two minutes later the tingle starts again. Only with this, it’s itching. Like my pores are whispering,
“Wash me. You think you’re clean. You’re not. Wash me. There’s salt here. And dirt. And more salt. Because we sweat all over you today, but you didn’t notice because we’re subtle like that. BUT WE STILL DID IT. AND NOW YOU’LL ITCH FOREVER.”
This is not the subtle sweat, this is sweat from me doing five minutes of exercise that my unhealthy body can’t handle. Pretty, though; iPhone cameras are where it’s at.